


The Devil's Alphabet

by Phoenix1966



Series: The Devil's Alphabet [2]
Category: Actor RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alpha Jensen, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Bottom Jared, Don't copy to another site, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mpreg, NSFW Art, Not Beta Read, Omega Jared, Slavery, Tags Contain Spoilers, Top Jensen, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-02-27 21:46:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18747727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix1966/pseuds/Phoenix1966
Summary: Jensen and Jared lived in different worlds that were about to collide. Someone was bound to break.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware of the "Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings" tag. If you absolutely need to know something, you can send me a site mail on LiveJournal (same user name as here) or send me a message through Tumblr. Please understand, if you send it as an anon on Tumblr and it is a spoiler-y question, I will not answer it so as to not ruin it for others (if you send it off anon, I will reply privately). I have tagged for some of the "biggest" issues in my mind, but there may very well be stuff in here that is not for you. I am not going to tag for everything because it really ruins the story (and sometimes gives readers the wrong idea about the direction/intent of the story to boot). Read at your own risk.
> 
> Also, I am out of practice. This story is completely plotted out, but please do not expect weekly updates, at least not to start with. it has been very hard to get back into the swing of things.
> 
> Standard disclaimer applies that this was all for fun and no profit was made and no copyright infringement intended.
> 
> I do not give permission for anyone to translate or repost my works anywhere. If this continues, I will delete all my work and no longer post.

 

> _“Of covetousness, we may truly say that it makes’ both the Alpha and Omega in the devil’s alphabet, and that it is the first vice in corrupt nature which moves, and the last which dies.”_
> 
> Robert South

 

“Omega.”

The word hung there for a moment, laid bare like a dirty secret suddenly given breadth and width. Jensen didn’t bat an eye, didn’t look up. He kept his breathing even and forced the sudden tension from creeping up to his shoulders because he recognized the slow, easy drawl—Christian. Instead, he continued to type away on his laptop, ignoring him. He knew that wouldn’t bother Chris. The other alpha wouldn’t view it as a slight since he was one of the few lawyers in the firm that wasn’t threatened by Jensen’s rising star. They even shared the occasional drink after work, both having Texas heat and wide-open skies (by way of Oklahoma in Chris’ case) in common. The semi-regular ritual probably made them appear friends in the eyes of their peers; Jensen wasn’t so sure, but it had gone on for over a year now, so perhaps that made it true after all. When he finally did flick his glance upward, he noted Chris was squinting sky-blue eyes in Jensen’s general direction, trying to adjust his vision to the muted light that he preferred. He leaned against the doorframe with a careless, lazy, nearly feline grace, clearly waiting for some kind of reaction to his announcement. Jensen was fine with letting him linger there. It was one of the various tools he employed both inside a courtroom and out. Make the enemy come to you. He vaguely wondered, but only vaguely, if he should be disturbed thinking of a colleague that way. Of course, a peer was only one step removed from competition.

The blinds were closed, as was his usual preference when he was without clients. It cut down on needless distractions. What should it matter to him if the sun was shining or the sky was a dull gray? He didn’t need to be bothered by the green-gold-red leaves of the few trees along their street to know that it was autumn. He had a calendar, after all, and work to do. A puddle of light from a desk lamp—the only source of illumination, manmade or otherwise, in the entire room— dribbled onto the glossy surface beneath it and that was enough for him. The whole office was subdued, in sparse tones of gray and black with slashes of beige here and there to break up the monotony, with a minimal amount of furniture. The firm allowed their partners carte blanche for their workspaces, within reason, and found nothing amiss with Jensen’s choices (not that they would, because Jensen could do no wrong with them these days). Jensen found the décor helped him stay focused and if others found it cold, that was of no concern to him. He had stopped worrying what others thought of him years ago.

He quirked his lips—sly, sideways smile—while watching Chris shiver despite his alpha metabolism in the rather stark and, some might argue, bleak office. But this was Jensen’s domain, so Chris remained appropriately silent about his decorative choices. He didn’t miss the way the dark-haired man subtly sniffed the room; alphas often scented other territories out of reflex. Jensen was well aware of that. Some youthful habits were harder to break than others, no matter the embarrassing and shame-inducing sex ed classes they all endured in Middle School where they tried to browbeat it and all the other _dirty bad wrong_ that alphas should never do out of them. Aside from his own scent, there was only a floral note lingering in the air like a forgotten promise, so subtle than if one didn’t know it was there, one couldn’t put their finger on what the perfume was exactly. The entire office suite hinted of it. Lavender was occasionally helpful with unruly, over-emotional clients, one more tactic the partners employed to subconsciously soothe and calm them. Not even all of the employees of Jensen’s firm were aware of the scent manipulation they practiced, but Jensen was. Jensen was aware of many things.

He ignored Chris for a few moments longer, ostensibly to finish up the edits for his closing arguments in the Dowers’ case, but also to maintain control of the situation and let Chris stew for another minute. The case itself was a slam dunk, hardly needing further attention to detail at this point, but that didn’t mean that Jensen wouldn’t give it his all. He had a near perfect track record and he wasn’t about to let that change anytime soon. There was, however, no need to pull out the “alphluenza” defense that he had built his reputation on. And, while Jensen couldn’t claim the name, everything else about how it was now used belonged to him. The term itself had been around since the 50s and been previously defined as “a painful, contagious, socially transmitted condition of overload, debt, anxiety, and waste resulting from the dogged pursuit of more by alphas”. However, it was his brilliant defense two years ago that changed the way the world used it. And he owed his career to it.

A young alpha, stupid-drunk and careless, crashed her Escalade into a disabled vehicle on the side of I-95 just outside of Richmond one night. The beta driver of the damaged vehicle had pulled over to change a flat and, eventually discouraged by his failed efforts (betas weren’t usually mechanically inclined), had left the van to find competent help. The intoxicated teenager had plowed into the abandoned vehicle, totaling it. She’d barely registered the overall damage done to the front fender and passenger side wheels and driven off, sobered up some and noticed the wreckage, dumping the Cadillac in a rundown section of Chamberlayne Avenue to later report it conveniently stolen. It hadn’t taken any real detective work to track her down, with surveillance video from an hour before the crash of her stealing several cases of beer from a convenience store attached to a gas station that actually had working, anti-theft cameras installed on the property. The criminal case had been fairly straightforward, despite that evidence. The beta had abandoned their vehicle along the shoulder of an interstate with signage clearly labeling the area as a “no parking zone”, leaving him at fault for the damage and not the alpha. The teenager got a light slap on her wrist, sentenced to eight hours of community service and required to take an alcohol awareness class sponsored by the state. The actual challenge had been the civil suit that had followed.

Along with the totaled van, there was the matter of the property within. The beta had been a contract worker for the Bureau of Omega Management and had been in the process of transporting five omegas to a D.C. auction the following morning. All five of the pets had died at the crash site, but the veterinary necropsy had determined that three died hours _after_ the accident, while waiting for the beta handler to return. That was the sticking point since they might have been salvageable if the alpha had remained on the scene and called in assistance. It was at this point that PET-O—People for the Ethical Treatment of Omegas—had stepped in. The group, a nonpartisan, nonprofit educational organization, clearly saw the situation as one to further their socio-political agenda. They had immediately brought a civil suit against the young alpha, realizing there was zero chance of mounting a successful case against the Bureau of Omega Management, given the financial resources and contracted legal firms at the government’s disposal. However, the alpha was a feasible target and they’d set their sights on her, eagerly bringing the media with them.

The physical evidence was rather damning, with the CCTV recording of the alcohol theft, the damage to the van, the teen’s deliberate efforts to lose possession of her dented car after the fact and, of course, the dead pets who were still, technically, property of the government at the time of their destruction. The alpha’s wealthy parents shopped around several law firms, but despite the hefty retainer they were offering, couldn’t find any takers. Most local firms were leery, weighing risks vs. reward and seeing the risks far outweighed the reward this time. No one wanted to court negative press and, while they had limited financial resources, PET-O was slowly but surely gaining an impressive following on various social media platforms. Trending topics on social media tended to reach the attention of the Hollywood elite, who wielded substantial power, but did so capriciously. They were eager to jump on any perceived wrong without even understanding the nuances of the situation, always willing to appear like a shining, moral beacon to their millions of followers. After all, it was those followers who paid for the movie tickets that kept them safely ensconced in their cocoon of wealth. That wealth, in turn, was funneled into a variety of political venues at stars’ whims, so it behooved the government to stay in Hollywood’s good graces. And this case was shaping up to have all the earmarks of something that would catch their eye.

However, the teenager’s family was undaunted, finally approaching _Lehne, Rolston, and Fuller_ in a last-ditch effort. Initially, the senior partners had not been interested in the slightest, but had at least made the junior partners and the rest of the staff aware of the case and its inherent risks. The case, in Fuller’s words, was a “dog with fleas”. The idiot daughter was on video stealing a ridiculous amount of beer. She had a history of alcohol-related mischief: driving under the influence at the age of fourteen (she was taking herself to school), caught with an unconscious, and extremely inebriated, beta teen in the back of a pickup the following year in her most recent school’s parking lot, and a few other minor offenses. The partners, especially senior partner Fredrick Lehne, had pointed out the very real chance that PET-O might win their case. And if that happened, he said, the government would most certainly also walk away with a black eye, since it was highly probable the safety and care afforded to the omegas would be brought into question. Getting a shot at the government was likely PET-O’s endgame in bringing the case to court.

However, he had added, with a strange, golden gleam to his blue eyes, if someone _wanted_ to risk it and actually won the case, that would also net the firm an extremely advantageous position. The government would be somewhat beholden to them and it might actually open the door between them for future contract work, which would be a first for the firm. When the Supreme Court was deemed redundant some sixty odd years ago, after what was now referred to as The Omega War, the government had dissolved that branch and the President hired firms on an as-needed basis. Decades later, it was nearly impossible for outside ones to make any inroads with them. This would be a priceless coup. However, if they lost the case, it remained unsaid but understood that the associate’s position would be terminated with prejudice and their name blackballed with any other firm in the area. This was an all or nothing case.

Jensen had seen this as his chance to set himself apart from his colleagues. He hadn’t hesitated to swoop in and claim the case. He worked on it tirelessly for months, lost nights and weekends plotting his strategy and, when the trial date approached, he had a plan. No one from the firm thought he stood a chance, with the deck stacked so high against him. And they were wrong.

PET-O laid out their case, propped up photos, stills, and diagrams highlighting the key moments of the night in question. They did everything they could to make the jury sympathetic to the fate of the omega pets, despite the sordid history the creatures had in their society. The coup-de-grace was the set of necropsy photos they passed among the jury showing their twisted and bloody bodies. Jensen had to admit it was a brilliant move because all they looked like there were people, not what they really were. When they finally rested their case, Jensen hadn’t missed the smug expression on the plaintiffs’ faces. He tried very hard not to smile in return because they had played right into his hand. If the plaintiffs’ plan was to make the jury see the omegas as people, then Jensen would do his best to make the jury see the defendant in themselves.

He made an impassioned defense, using every last bit of his charisma to sell it to the jury. And what a defense it was. He effectively argued before the country that since all alphas were raised to believe the world was their oyster and they could do no wrong, they _literally could do no wrong_ with regards to those that were not alphas. After each brash point made, the carefully dressed teen, looking nothing like her drunken booking photo that the plaintiff’s side had left propped up on an easel nearby, sat straighter and taller behind the defense table, like some paragon of alpha virtue. With her blonde hair—only a few shades lighter than Jensen’s— tastefully styled and her acne concealed with make-up, she could have been his little sister and Jensen played that up, occasionally pausing to touch her shoulder in a familial way and offer her tactile support, before seeming to act embarrassed, like he was caught out in an unguarded moment of affection. His message was clear enough. This alpha was like family; she was his family. This alpha was _every_ alpha. It still remained to be seen if his argument would hold water in a criminal trial. But in the civil one brought against the teenager? The jury, swayed by his commanding presence, found the young alpha not responsible due to her innate nature. As one jury member was quoted by the press later confessing, “How can you convict someone for being themselves? We’d have to find all alphas guilty then.” Jensen’s firm literally had no choice but to almost immediately bump him to junior partner after that, given the number of clients that began to demand Jensen by name. At the age of thirty-three, he became the youngest partner of record for _Lehne, Rolston, and Fuller_.

After a few definitive keystrokes, fingers precise as always whether it was a closing argument or Prokofiev’s “War Sonatas”, Jensen raised his gaze in a question—right eyebrow quirked in his signature expression—demanding what Christian had been expecting.

“And I care why?” he grumbled, voice low and gravelly. “Do you think these briefs will write themselves?” He vaguely waved toward an insanely neat stack of papers resting in his “in” box.

There was precious little else on the massive desk that practically held court in the office, a great black lake of glossy mahogany, although the presence of actual papers themselves was as anachronistic—given that everything was transmitted electronically—as the mechanical metronome that clicked ruthlessly near them. And then there was the wall to his right that was floor to ceiling books. But Jensen liked to hold the law in his hands, where the words literally had more weight, more gravitas, and he could understand the intent of the alphas who had written them rather than read them off a computer screen. If some of his colleagues thought him odd, they were smart enough to keep their mouths shut. Except for Christian, of course. He was either too brash or too ambivalent to care. Jensen wasn’t sure which it was.

He sauntered in, easy-limbed and loose-gaited, seemingly more at home at a bar shooting a game of pool than a law firm. His suit coat was absent, tie yanked askew and the sleeves of his dress shirt pushed up his muscular forearms. All that was missing from the picture he painted was a piece of straw dangling from his shit-eating-grin lips. He knew that casualness rankled others to no end and used it to his advantage more than once in court. He had a way of drawing people in and making them trust him and underestimate him in equal measure, before going straight for the jugular. Prosecutors thought they were going up against a hick cowboy only to be brought to their knees by the shrewd lawyer. Unlike some members of the firm, Chris didn’t appear threatened by him and genuinely seemed to like Jensen, given the way he’d actively pursued a friendship with him over the last couple of months when no one else would. “Thought you might want to take a gander,” he finally offered. He plopped down, without express invitation, onto the edge of Jensen’s black desk and ruffled the stack of papers absently like a Vegas blackjack dealer his deck of cards. “All work and no play…” he murmured, smirking when Jensen moved the sheaf of documents out of his reach after tapping the collection against the desk, straightening them back to their right-angled and military precision, in time with the metronome. _Tap-tap-tap_ like a mechanical heart. Order restored.

Jensen sighed at Chris’ casual familiarity, but that was the only outward show of annoyance he made. The shorter alpha always had liked to brush his fur the wrong way and get a rise out of him. Despite their relationship (which Jensen refused to define), the older man gleefully delighted in riling Jensen at every opportunity. He didn’t outrank him within the hierarchy of the firm, not yet a junior partner like Jensen, so he tried to rub Jensen’s nose in it in other ways. Focusing on the dull wash of the laptop screen before him, Jensen was dismissive. “Like I have the time or inclination to take an interest in an _omega_ ,” he replied, voice dripping with sarcasm like he knew Chris was used to hearing. Jensen barely restrained himself from wiping his mouth after the distasteful label crossed his lips. He had neither the patience nor, more importantly, the _desire_ to sully his hands with a rich alpha’s pet. He pointedly ignored the faint memory of wailing, like some ghost slinking through his memories, which the word evoked.

“Son,” Chris drawled, smirking when Jensen couldn’t control a shudder at the moniker, “you don’t need ‘time’,” he hooked his fingers in the air, “for an omega. Those bitches are there for you, not the other way ‘round. Leastways, that’s what I’ve always heard. Not like _I’d_ know firsthand.” There was self-depreciation in his tone if one listened closely enough. Jensen wasn’t all that sure it was sincere. There was something like jealousy lurking in those words.

“Chris,” Jensen huffed, fingers beating out an angry staccato on his laptop now, words marching across the screen like an army of black ants, “air quotes make you look like an ass.” He didn’t need to look up to know what Chris was doing. When Jensen did pause, it was long enough to glance at the faded, stitched leather of the shorter man’s boots, peeking out from beneath his dress slacks. They were completely out-of-place, and yet completely Christian all at once. “So do cowboy boots. Unless you need the heels. Compensating for something?”

“Sorry I don’t look like your fine, fashionista ass,” he quipped, eyeing Jensen’s charcoal gray silk suit up and down. “Armani? We can’t all look like we stepped off the cover of _Alpha Quarterly_ like some people do.” When Jensen didn’t even acknowledge his teasing with so much as a blink, Chris finally relented. “Fine, fine,” he grumbled, hopping off Jensen’s desk and striding over to the window. With a rough snap, he opened the floor-to-ceiling window coverings, filling the room with blinding, clean light. “I’m only here for the view anyway, since you have the best one.” And then he stared at something four stories beneath them.

“Being a partner has its perks, Christian,” Jensen mumbled, fingers flying across the keyboard. He wanted to get the Dowers’ brief wrapped up before he headed home that evening, even though it wasn’t needed until next week. “Don't put off until tomorrow what you can do today” was a phrase Jensen lived and breathed by. And he had a long weekend looming before him, where he would be undisturbed and left alone.

“’Cept, apparently, having time for your _own_ needs. You know,” he continued, the confusingly similar (but not) mix of Texan and Oklahoman twang in his rough voice strangely soothing despite the words themselves, “those pesky, little urges we have now and again? The ones we don’t ever talk about in polite company? Plus, as a partner now, shouldn’t you be indulging in some of those perks? Isn’t it expected within our little _keiretsu_?” Pausing to glance back out the exposed windows, he studied the figures below with a frown. “On the other hand,” he admitted reluctantly, “you might not be missing much. This is a pretty sorry looking bunch and that’s saying something, considering what the Rangers have been bringing in lately.”

Jensen breathed out loudly; the other alpha was not taking the hint and didn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon. He pushed away from his desk, making a show of stretching out his spine, vertebrae clicking one by one as he did so. He’d been seated for the last two hours and a quick break wouldn’t be such a bad thing, Jensen reasoned to himself while he put his jacket back on. He plucked the Bluetooth headset from his ear, setting it precisely along the edge of his blotter and reluctantly joined Chris by the window, making sure through scent and body language to show it was the very last thing he wanted to do. And despite that, he still moved with a silent and sure gait, all grace and economy of motion. A predator in the end.

Although he had no intention of attending the seasonal auction, he realized their firm would probably end up having to deal with the red tape from the contracts and sales; this was one of the doors he had opened between the firm and the government. Only the wealthiest of alpha elite could afford to adopt omegas culled from the wild herds and only the wealthiest could afford their firm’s services. He decided he might as well get an idea of what to expect and familiarize himself with the current stock. At least, that’s what he told himself while he ignored mournful cries flitting about in the recesses of his mind. He leaned a shoulder against the window, careful not to touch the glass, and took in the exclusive view below.

Their firm was nestled in the southernmost section of Georgetown, with the Potomac easily in sight, but not too near the trendy shops and bars to the northwest of them along the intersection of Wisconsin Avenue and M Street. However, given their proximity to Washington Harbor, there were some popular restaurants close by, which came in handy when they needed to entertain clients outside the office walls. Just west of them was the Waterfront Park, which was bordered on one side by the Capital Crescent Trail. And it was along this public path that the omegas were paraded. One glance told Jensen everything he needed to know. The shorter alpha was right – it  _was_  a sad, ragtag pack. Most omegas culled from public lands that came across the auction block were clearly feral and dangerous, but malnourished and slight. Their culling at the hands of the Rangers was a kindness really, given how poorly they survived on their own. Statistics had proven that ninety percent perished without government intervention each year. This group looked like it had all the same markers that Jensen commonly saw from his vantage point.

“Hey. That one’s got some color,” Chris said with a little excitement, pointing toward the back.

At first glance, Jensen was ready to dismiss him along with all the others—all too thin and frail looking, typical omegas from head to toe. “Chris,” he began in a mock-stern voice, smoothing a black suspender against his blue, silk, pinstripe shirt, “what color? That one is as white as you and me.”

Chris shifted and leaned his shoulder against the glass, mirroring Jensen’s pose, to look at him with a critical eye. “I’m white,” he smiled, before reaching over and snapping the suspender Jensen had just adjusted against his chest with a crisp _thwack_. Jensen slapped his hand away and stepped back in reflex. However, Chris was undeterred. “You are what someone would kindly describe as ‘fish-belly white’ or ‘pasty’ when not.”

Jensen scowled but said nothing. It was true that he might be pale, but that was simply because he freckled ridiculously in the sun and whoever heard of a freckled alpha at his age? He avoided bright sunlight whenever possible and when he couldn’t, he slathered on the sunscreen like a second coat. However, he did give the omega Chris was referring to a second consideration and then a third. And then he wondered how he ever could have missed him to begin with.

Head and shoulders above the rest, the omega was an anomaly of muscles and coiled strength. He could almost be mistaken for an alpha with that solid build. His chocolate hair, matted with twigs and leaves, brushed against his shoulders, all but obscuring his face. Stripped down to the waist, his toned pecs and abs were on display to the delight of the alphas and betas who whistled and cat-called to them as they were marched along the trail; the parades always drew a small crowd. Omegas were nude in the wild, but city ordinances demanded they be clothed enough to cover their genitals when in public. The auction arena was not open to the public, but only those who could afford the prohibitively high entrance fee. Because that all but turned the public space private for the duration of bidding, the omegas would be shown in their natural state. This march was to tease and tantalize the general populace, most of whom would never be able to afford an auction ticket, let alone bid on one. Someone, probably one of the handlers, had tugged this particular omega’s borrowed pants down so they rested just below the crest of his tantalizing ass. And since the omega was collared in silver and had his hands secured behind his back from a band that ran the length of his spine from that collar, there was little he could do about it. That didn’t stop him from straining against his bonds and unwittingly putting on more of a show, flexing his biceps with the struggle. His honeyed skin, mottled by scattered bruises and faded markings (occasionally, omegas painted primitive designs on their bodies for some inexplicable reason), shone in the sun and Jensen unconsciously licked his full lips at the sight. This omega was something to behold.

One of the handlers shoved a small, black-haired omega female to hurry her along. Because of the way she was restrained, she wasn’t able to compensate and crashed to the sidewalk. She cowered where she had fallen and although he couldn’t exactly hear her, Jensen was sure she was whimpering and he winced in sympathy when he saw her now-bloodied knees. And while the female omega would never know it, that handler would be punished for damaging government goods. It was a stupid move on his part to mark her up before the auction and in full view of the public. But Jensen was almost as startled as the foolish handler on the street below when the tall one suddenly lunged at him, snarling and snapping despite his restraints. The handler didn’t hesitate to strike him across the jaw, now a matter of self-defense and completely protected by government protocols. Jensen unconsciously stepped closer to the window, breath coming faster and his heart beating unevenly, strangely affected by the savage. The tall one stumbled but didn’t fall, spitting a mixture of blood and saliva across the boots of the one who had hit him. He straightened, tossed his long hair aside and stood his ground, body language screaming at the alpha to try it again. But whether it was because the alpha realized he had a crowd watching or because of the audacity of the omega, the handler didn’t strike him again.

Unbidden, Jensen thought that one would fight his owner every step of the way. And the realization made him smile. Just then, the omega raised his head skyward and even though at least seventy feet separated them, Jensen could swear he was looking right at him. He rested his hand against the glass, feeling the unseasonal heat of the day press back against him, and held his breath.

The moment ended abruptly when a second handler, not the one he’d threatened, gave the omega a shove to get him moving again and broke their strange connection. Jensen watched as the omega was eventually forced along with the rest of the herd down to the city courtyard until they were nothing more than colored splotches against gray architecture.

“Jensen?” he dimly heard. “Are you listening to me?”

Turning toward Chris, he realized he hadn’t been aware of anything but the omega for the last minute. Jensen snatched his hand away from the window like it was on fire and tried to cover for himself.

“I am,” he lied, wiping his hand against his trousers. “I was just trying to remember if the firm has a representative selected to oversee the auction.” There was no reason for him to be so affected by the pet. It didn’t make any sense.

Chris narrowed his gaze for a second, but seemed to think better about mentioning anything. He eventually replied, “I don’t think so. That’s why I came down here, to try and pique your interest and maybe finagle me an invite to finally see one of these up close and personal.” Of course, Chris was working an angle.

Jensen dragged his hand down over his mouth. It wasn’t ideal, but maybe he could use this excuse to get another look at that omega. He was certain if he could see it again, he would be able to get the thing out of his system. The strange thrumming in his blood was probably just pent-up curiosity. And fuck Chris for opening the blinds in the first place.

“Well, I suppose I could try. But then you owe me, pal,” he tacked on, hoping he sounded convincing. Jensen didn’t care in the least if he could get Christian included, but now he had an excuse for why he would be asking to go when he’d rebuffed every other offer and request from the partners before. It was perfect.

“That’s the spirit,” Chris crowed, grin back in place. “Meet you down front in five.” And the shorter alpha practically ran from the room.

Jensen raked a hand through his close-cropped hair, unconsciously mussing its gelled appearance. What the hell was he doing? He glanced back at the window, lost in thought for a moment until his gaze eventually sharpened on the handprint that smudged the center window like a brand. He walked back over to the desk and picked up his headset.

Inserting it in his ear, he said, “Housekeeping.” Jensen glanced down at his Tag Heuer. He hoped they wouldn’t take too long to answer; he had an auction to attend, after all.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing has been slow going, but I seem to be getting back into the swing of things. Already working on the next chapter. Thanks for your patience.

Jensen moved with slow grace down the long corridor toward the suite at the opposite end, which was occupied by the partners. The first office he passed was Alaina’s, her voice drifting faintly out into the hallway. He only caught brief bursts of her machine-gun Italian while she paced around the room, stiletto heels angrily clicking against her precious hardwood floors. Jensen found the language beautiful even though he didn’t understand it, being only fluent in English, French and Arabic. He glanced at her, momentarily taken aback by her now fiery-red hair. The alpha had been a brunette and a blonde during her tenure with the firm, but this was new. It suited her milky-white skin, he idly thought, more so than the previous colors had. Jensen wondered how long it would last. And the dark suit she wore, severe lines doing nothing to offset the obvious curves to her figure, made for an eye-catching contrast. She knew how to leverage all of her assets.

Without missing a beat, she continued to clearly berate whoever was on the other end of the line while snapping closed the Venetian blinds, effectively shutting Jensen out without so much as a by your leave. He flinched at the abrupt act, but wasn’t surprised that this was where they found themselves. She’d approached him not too long after his promotion and while public alpha/alpha couplings no longer held some of the social stigma they used to (since no alpha wanted to admit to yielding to another), it hadn’t worked between them. They’d both been too eager to force the other to their knees when neither wanted to bend. What was done was done and they were stiffly formal with each other ever since. Jensen didn’t really mind; he had never seen a future in it for them. Pushing away any further thoughts of her, he padded down the hallway, while the sumptuous carpeting swallowed his footsteps.

Between each office, a unique Steuben work rested within a recessed nook on a black pedestal, a single spotlight shining down on the American-crafted crystal. Most pieces were from the Houghton period, symbolizing the conquering alpha in a variety of poses, which Jensen had learned was something Mr. Lehne favored. When he passed by, each seemed to wink at him briefly. The pinpoints of light were tiny grace notes between the dark, rich, wooden paneling that dominated the floor. The nearer he got to the corner occupied by the “Great White Fathers” (as the partners were informally known), the more Jensen began to second-guess himself. It wasn’t that he was afraid of them, like many in the firm were, it was simply that he started to feel uncomfortable. This was just not something he did and well clear of his wheelhouse. Jensen didn’t need or want an omega and he certainly had no desire to observe an auction of livestock firsthand, he chided himself. Chris could just ask on his own, Jensen decided, if he wanted to go so badly. In fact, he might have even talked himself out of the whole affair completely if he hadn’t turned the corner and seen Tahmoh outside his office in comfortable conversation with two of the senior partners: Mr. Lehne and Mr. Fuller. That particular meeting of the minds solidified his resolve and Jensen kept going.

Slightly taller than Jensen, Tahmoh cut an imposing figure in his double-breasted, midnight-blue suit. The brown-haired alpha, who shared Jensen’s white skin and green eyes, was only a few years older and had been with the firm a little bit longer. And until Jensen made his mark with his alphluenza case, the other alpha had been the golden child to the Fathers, especially Mr. Fuller. Cock of the walk until Jensen swooped in and took not only the firm, but the country, by storm with his abilities and persona. With that one case, Tahmoh’s shine dulled. Suddenly he wasn’t the only one called into “special” meetings with the Fathers; sometimes he wasn’t called in at all.

Jensen knew he threatened the taller alpha and that fact never failed to make Jensen preen, even though he’d been taught in school (like every alpha was) that they were above baser instincts; that while they were clearly superior to betas, all alphas were created equal and their intellect was what separated them from the beast-like omegas. It didn’t stop Jensen from taking a secret delight each time he found Tahmoh displaying a show of weakness, especially the first time.

Six months after Jensen’s promotion, he found himself sitting next to Tahmoh while the Fathers laid out the current direction their keiretsu wanted to take regarding a few acquisitions. The actual finances weren’t that riveting for Jensen and his gaze, along with his attention, had begun to wander. With no one else nearby, he couldn’t help but eye the lawyer across the table that he recognized was his direct competition unawares. He grudgingly admitted the man was classically handsome, from his strong, square jaw to the prominence of his hawkish nose. He was a perfect example of an alpha in his prime. But Jensen knew he also held his own in that regard despite his childish freckles and, unlike Tahmoh, his green eyes were a vibrant shade, not the washed-out, sea-foam of the older man. He was practically chuckling at himself over the vain thought when Tahmoh shot him a direct glare, irritation flashing in eyes no longer bland, but deep, emerald green.

Jensen had been shocked, but managed to swallow the laughter that had nearly spilled right out of him when he realized that the other alpha had had his eyes professionally tinted. He vaguely wondered if the change had been permanent or if the other lawyer had to place special drops in his eyes every day, a subtle reminder that Jensen had visible superiority over him in at least one regard. Without an ounce of the guilt school had hammered into all alphas, he secretly hoped it was the later.

Mr. Lehne was the first to notice Jensen’s approach and his blue eyes took on a wicked gleam. Like Christian, Mr. Lehne was not an average height for an alpha, falling well short of six feet, but he still managed to seem like he was talking down to whomever he spoke to. Even Mr. Fuller, a hand and a half taller, didn’t seem able to intimidate him. Those two had been the original firm founders and neither would agree as to which of them came first despite Lehne’s name appearing first on the letterhead. Like most alphas, they agreed to disagree and left it at that. However, each one had very clear lines of territory within the company, with Mr. Fuller controlling the offices and employees of the upper floors, Mr. Lehne holding dominion of the lower ones, and the absent Mr. Rolston acting as liaison to the keiretsu and the government. While it would appear on the surface that that would mean Mr. Fuller had the “best” employees under him, Mr. Lehne said that hungry staff were the ones with real fire in their bellies and Jensen was one of his favorites, even though he was now on the same floor as them, technically making him Mr. Fuller’s employee, and answering to Mr. Rolston more often than not, thanks to Jensen bringing the firm to the government’s attention. He secretly delighted that all three Fathers subtly fought over him.

“Hello, champ,” Mr. Lehne grinned his carnival barker smile, dropping his left shoulder and throwing out his right arm in greeting. All that was missing from the picture he painted of an old-time shyster was a straw boater hat, seersucker jacket and bamboo cane to complete the look. He wore it well, with his slick, graying hair neatly parted to the left.

Both Tahmoh and Mr. Fuller stopped talking and turned to watch Jensen approach. Mr. Fuller might have been the oldest partner, but it wasn’t obvious; he wore his years well. And, unlike Tahmoh, he wasn’t vain about his looks since he had done nothing to cover or replace the hair that was mostly gone from the top of his head. What was left made a semi-circle around the side of his head, silver and white in color. He maintained a typical alpha’s physique, bordering on barrel-chested, with only a hint of age-induced stoutness. And it was because of his build that Jensen didn’t notice his entourage until Mr. Fuller stepped to the side, away from Tahmoh and closer to Mr. Lehne.

Behind him, dressed identically in black suits and ties, were the pair of betas who were, for all intents and purposes, his personal guard. Flanking his right was Matt Cohen and on his left was Misha Collins. With their dark hair, pale white skin and matching height, they could have been brothers. They even shared the same initials. Jensen had little to no dealings with them not because they were betas, but because they almost never spoke. When he’d first been introduced to them, the men had merely nodded in synchronous reply, like conjoined twins who didn’t know they’d been recently separated. That silence never changed over the course of his growing association with Mr. Fuller. Jensen had briefly entertained the outlandish idea that the Father had had their vocal cords cut as a way to ensure that all his secrets stayed that way, given what limited access betas had to technology beyond being guards, drivers, cooks or other types of tradesmen. If they were in the rare position of carrying a cellphone, the numbers were limited and the devices locked to prevent any accidental communications. And all devices were monitored by the appropriate government agency anyway. Jensen knew the silencing procedure was fairly commonplace with omega pets (more as a courtesy to neighbors, from what he’d heard mentioned about it), but that sort of medical treatment had long since been outlawed against betas, deemed barbaric and primitive against a sentient person. Even betas facing long-term incarceration were no longer subjected to it, despite having all rights stripped from them once jailed. Since that couldn’t be the case, Jensen realized it was probably a combination of factors that insured their silence.

Betas—unlike alphas—could only advance to a rudimentary high school level of education, with only the occasional, lucky ones being fortunate enough to attend certain classes along with alphas. Once they completed their curriculum to the satisfaction of the school boards, all betas were run through a vigorous round of testing to find the best fit for their future position in society. Jensen remembered how the betas at his school had crowded around the antiquated bulletin board in the main hall to read the results of their testing and find out what trade school they had qualified for. All schools, per government mandate, were required to maintain a level of transparency regarding beta placement, so everyone knew where they went.

_“Jensen, they’re posted,” a beta named Steve Carlson, who attended a music class with Jensen, told him on Posting Day. Breathless, the beta, who had a passing appreciation for music theory, joined the mob of betas pressing in to see what opportunities would be open to them going forward. Jensen hung back with a few alpha classmates, joking and watching the betas jostle each other for a glimpse at the board._

_“God,” Stephen Amell sighed, “they have it so easy. Can you imagine,” the blond alpha continued, “someone just telling you, ‘This is what you’re good at. Now do it.’? We have to struggle with so many choices,” he lamented. Jensen shrugged at his fellow varsity football player, all brawn and no brains, who would probably end up going pro. Amell wasn’t too sharp._

_“I don’t know, man,” Jensen had replied. “I can’t imagine anyone telling me what to do.”_

_“Dude,” Amell grinned, “class prez, team captain and a music prodigy? Of course, you want to do it all!” They bumped shoulders good-naturedly until Steve passed them by._

_“What’d you get?” Jensen asked him._

_The straw-blond lifted his head up and smiled, but Jensen knew the beta well enough to realize he wasn’t really happy. “Auto mechanics,” he had replied. So much for dreams of Carnegie Hall or that band he had talked about one hot afternoon when they had both stayed late to use the instruments unfettered, neither one wanting to abandon them l_ _ike their classmates—eager to exit the stuffy room into the spring sunshine—had._

_Jensen struggled for something positive to say. “That’s great,” he finally settled on. “With all the electronics involved these days, you must have tested pretty high.” He thought that was upbeat enough. After all, Steve was a beta. He was never going to be more than that._

_Steve had shrug-smiled and trudged off. “What’d he think was gonna happen?” Amell had quipped, once the beta was out of hearing range. “He want to start a garage band or something?”_

_Jensen watched the beta disappear around the corner, effectively out of his life forever. “Who knows?” he eventually said. “What does a beta think they’re going to become anyway?” It sounded correct to Jensen, exactly what was expected from an alpha._

_“Right?” Amell agreed before trying to slam Jensen into the nearby lockers. They grappled and got one another in loose headlocks, laughing and struggling obliviously past betas who were finding out all that their life was going to entail. What did they care? Their life was still opening up before them and Amell was right. There were so many choices. Jensen wanted to seize life by the knot and have it all._

Pushing that memory aside, Jensen decided that both of Mr. Fuller’s betas must have tested high in protective instincts to have been trained as guards. In some ways, it was a dubious honor, since few betas qualified as such, given that omegas were “renowned” for being fiercely protective, making this profession a bit of a slight against their betahood. Mr. Fuller was the only partner to employ guards so obviously, but not the only one to have them. Most high-ranking and politically connected alphas needed them. Jensen was sure Mr. Lehne and Mr. Rolston did as well, but they were more subtle about their show of force. Jensen plastered on his best smile and offered his hand to Mr. Lehne.

“Sir,” he replied, shaking the Father’s hand firmly, close enough now to smell the cloying scent the older alpha favored. He glanced at Mr. Fuller, but the other alpha kept his hands clasped behind his back and regarded Jensen silently, much like his shadow guard.

“And what brings you around these parts, kiddo?” Mr. Lehne smoothly continued, saving Jensen from any embarrassment at the other alpha’s snub.

“I was curious, sir, if we had already chosen the representatives for today’s auction,” Jensen inquired, deciding to barrel straight ahead. In for a penny, in for a pound.

The corner of Mr. Lehne’s mouth drew up in a smirk, all Cheshire Cat pleased. His tongue snaked out and wet his lips before he answered. “Well, well, well. Finally interested, are we?” and he pounded on Jensen’s back jovially.

Jensen let his body give in somewhat to the blows, although the Father wasn’t truly affecting him; it was just polite etiquette to acknowledge an elder’s show of strength. From the corner of his eye, Jensen saw that Mr. Fuller had perked up at the mention of the auction and seemed to be studying Jensen more closely now.

Deciding not to reveal all his cards, Jensen explained, “Christian seemed very interested in viewing this crop of omegas and I thought perhaps I really should be hands-on to familiarize myself as well and we could go together to represent the firm this round.” Like all good courtroom lies, it was close to the truth.

Mr. Lehne flicked a glance at the other partner before pursing his lips and remaining silent.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Fuller finally interjected, “but as you know, we only have two allotments for the auction and Tahmoh here,” he paused to lay a congenial had on the alpha’s shoulder, “has already put in a request to represent us. Isn’t that right, m’boy?” And there was no hiding the twinkle in his hazel-brown eyes.

Casting a smug smile at Jensen, Tahmoh straightened up to his full height of 6’2”, which put him just an inch over Jensen, and added, “That’s right. I have to admit to ulterior motives, though, because I’m eager to claim an omega for myself.” There was no disguising the pride in his calm, measured voice, obviously pleased that he could openly admit to finally having enough disposable income to buy an omega.

Omega weren’t cheap and not only was the auction entrance fees prohibitively high, they had to be paid for in ready monies. Credit was not something the government was willing to accept; it was all cash up front. These pets were more of an elite status symbol than the latest Bugatti off the assembly line. And one paid for that status dearly.

“That’s great,” Jensen lied, playing the game as expected and acting pleased for his fellow colleague. He nodded his head and admitted, “Christian is going to be disappointed, I’m sure. I suppose,” he continued after a long pause to make it seem like an afterthought, “since I already cleared my schedule for the afternoon, I might as well go as planned.” He lifted his eyes and grinned sheepishly at Mr. Lehne. “Unless the other slot is already spoken for, too, of course,” he demurred humbly.

Mr. Lehne and Mr. Fuller shared an unreadable look between them and Jensen was momentarily puzzled. He prided himself on being able to decipher people and his job depended on that honed skill, but this was beyond him.

“Absolutely, slugger,” Mr. Lehne finally agreed. For whatever reason, this Father always felt the need to use some sort of nickname for Jensen and while it didn’t outright rankle him, it did make Jensen bristle.

“You know,” Mr. Fuller joined in with his slightly higher-pitched, almost-nasal tone, “I think this is a marvelous idea.” He glanced between Jensen and Tahmoh, seeming to size them up simultaneously. Nodding, he went on, “To see the firm represented by two such fine, young, strong alphas will be good for us.”

Tahmoh preened under the scrutiny, but Jensen felt vaguely uneasy. He looked between the two Fathers and wondered why Mr. Lehne seemed exceptionally happy by the turn of events. It was true that the senior partner playfully nagged Jensen from time to time to dip into his considerable savings and live a little, but Jensen had thought the older alpha was merely referring to vacations and such.

Each Father glommed onto their preferred employee and began to escort them both back down the long hallway.

“You know,” Mr. Lehne conspired quietly with him, “I’ve been waiting for the day you loosen that uptight collar of yours, Jensen.” He grinned lavishly up at him and suddenly Jensen missed the lame nicknames he usually used, preferring them over this awkward intimacy. “You’ve been quite the boon to the company and it’s about time you rewarded yourself for all the honor you’ve brought not only to the firm, but to the keiretsu as a whole.”

Jensen tried to deflect him. “Mr. Lehne, I’m only going because I freed up my calendar. I have no intention of getting myself anything.”

They stopped beside the elevator, with Mr. Fuller a few feet behind them, whispering quietly to Tahmoh, while the betas trailed faithfully behind.

The older alpha leaned in. “My boy, give it a chance. Once you get there, you won’t know what hit you. Give in and indulge yourself, because Luna knows, you deserve it,” he whispered.

Jensen pulled back and quirked his right eyebrow. The reference to the ancient and practically forbidden deity was shocking. One of the first lessons taught after how no respectable alpha would ever shift to animal form was that the Old Gods were a perversion and were never to be mentioned. As if he sensed Jensen’s shock, the Father clapped a hand briefly over his mouth like he had been caught out in a faux pas, but there was no missing the lazy grin he barely hid. Jensen recognized the courtroom trick well, having employed it himself over the years.

“We’ll talk later, champ,” he assured Jensen, patting him on his arm. “And if you need an advance on your salary, you just text me and it’s done,” he added in a jailhouse whisper. Jensen fought to keep his eyes from watering at the smell of chemical pine trees that clung to him; Mr. Lehne’s cologne was _that_ overpowering.

He pulled back when Tahmoh and Mr. Fuller drew near.

“Ah, thank you, sir,” Jensen managed to offer hastily, not really understanding why Mr. Lehne was suddenly so solicitous, but knowing better than to appear as anything less than grateful.

Punching the button decisively, Mr. Fuller announced, “Now you boys do us proud.” And he included Jensen in his expansive smile, much to Tahmoh’s obvious displeasure, if the tightening of his shoulders was an indication. That alone was enough to make Jensen smile and shrug off the other partner’s weird familiarity.

“Shall we?” Jensen asked, when the elevator doors silently swooshed open, his mood brightened by his competition’s discomfort.

“Absolutely,” the other alpha responded without hesitation, rising to the challenge and ushering Jensen into the elevator first.

Jensen walked in smartly and whipped around, nearly standing at attention in front of the Fathers while the doors slid shut. Both he and Tahmoh stared up at the numbers as they ticked down, neither one acknowledging the other. Jensen feared it was going to be a long afternoon if this was any indication. Despite their close proximity, he refused to give in and scent the other man, but it was a challenge. In such close quarters, it was almost impossible not to, despite the subtle, steady push of scent blockers coming from the elevator’s air filtration system. He hummed to the inane music piped in instead.

When the delicate chime announced the lobby, neither man said anything, walking out at the same time the doors opened into the expansive lobby. Jensen had nearly forgotten about Chris, so when he did spot the shorter man lounging against the main reception desk nearby, he grimaced inwardly.

Sensing his displeasure, Tahmoh didn’t bother to disguise his glee when he said, “I’ll leave you to it and wait for you outside. You’ve got two minutes because I am _not_ missing the transport ship,” he added decisively.

Jensen snapped his head once, the only acknowledgement he was willing to give to such a clear order from someone who only amounted to a colleague. Jensen sucked in his lower lip and approached Chris while Tahmoh strode out into the sunlight.

“Hey,” he began, but the other man already seemed to know what was coming, given his souring expression.

Christian raised his hand and stopped Jensen before he could say more. “Lemme guess. You’re going and I ain’t invited.”

Jensen nodded and offered a “what can you do about it?” shrug, but didn’t say anything.

Chris spun around and Jensen noticed the way he clenched his fists. The action, however subtle, surprised Jensen because he didn’t think Christian had been that invested in attending since Jensen was certain the other alpha could not possibly afford a pet. He was about to offer some insincere condolences and half-hearted promises about a _next time_ Jensen was never going to pursue when he noted Chris’ gaze at Tahmoh standing restlessly outside.

When his associate turned around, Jensen couldn’t help but notice an almost-grin on the shorter alpha’s face. “You and Lurch going together?” he quipped.

Jensen shook his head and tried to hide his smile with a well-placed cough at the derogatory way Chris spoke about Tahmoh. Problem was, he was kind of dead on, given how Tahmoh rarely smiled and hardly shared a word with anyone outside a courtroom. And in court, he employed an even, soft and monotonous manner of speech, devoid of emotion that lulled juries and made those rare, emotional speeches to hammer home some point all the more powerful because they seemed out of character.

“He beat me to the Fathers,” Jensen confessed, “and there was nothing I could do about it, man. Sorry.”

Chris tilted his head and squinted a bit up at him. “Suuuure you couldn’t,” he drawled. Nodding, he punched Jensen in the shoulder. “No real reason for you to go then, though, huh?” he deduced shrewdly. Before Jensen could offer a lame excuse, Chris continued, “Man, now I really wish I was going if only to see you two bullheaded fools go at it against each other.”

Glancing almost nervously at Tahmoh, torn by not wanting to have to chase after the other alpha and not wanting to be left behind, Jensen cleared his throat. “Chris,” he began reasonably, “I was stuck out on a limb asking for you and rather than make it look like that’s what I was actually doing, I accepted the Fathers’ invitation.”

Chris followed Jensen’s tense gaze out the lobby windows and nodded once. “Whelp, I appreciate the effort, pal,” he drawled and Jensen wondered why everyone around him insisted on using lame nicknames for him. “Maybe next time?” he tacked on with just a touch of wistfulness.

Jensen nodded once and turned to join Tahmoh outside. “We can try,” he tossed over his shoulder, “but I don’t think there’ll be a next time for me.” He hustled outside without waiting to hear what Chris had to say and just in time, too, since Tahmoh was starting to walk toward Washington Harbor. Jensen only had to double-time his steps for a moment to catch up.

“What took you so long?” Tahmoh griped. “Was your boyfriend jealous?”

Jensen pulled his head back and regarded Tahmoh with unguarded surprise. “What?”

Without breaking his stride, the taller man smiled indulgently. “Oh, come one, Jensen. With all the lunches and after-dinner drinks you two share, it’s not really a state secret.”

Jensen cocked his head like a confused pup, running a silent tally through his memories of the times he and Chris had spent together outside of work. He didn’t think it was many and he certainly didn’t think it was enough to catch anyone else’s attention, but apparently it had. And once he started to sift through the dates, he realized that he and Chris _had_ been spending a lot of time together. He didn’t think it meant anything, but Jensen decided maybe he should curtail their after-hours meetings so that Chris wouldn’t get the wrong idea. After the near-debacle with Alaina, Jensen was determined not to shit where he ate. But Tahmoh didn’t need to know any of that.

Shrugging nonchalantly, he quipped, “Chris will get over it.” That seemed to be the right thing to say, because Tahmoh nodded and kept walking.

Apparently, that was the only conversation they were going to share, because neither man said anything to the other for the many blocks they covered. In some ways, Jensen would have preferred any kind of inane chatter over the silence as a way to distract himself. Despite it being September, D.C. was in the midst of an Indian Summer and Jensen silently cursed himself for forgetting his sunscreen. He’d left the building so abruptly that he’d forgotten the UV protection that he always slathered on copiously to prevent any more cursed freckles from appearing. And his dark, silk suit was doing him few favors in the heat, but he resisted the urge to remove his jacket since Tahmoh showed no signs of acknowledging the temperature. Instead, he allowed his thoughts to wander, a rare luxury since Jensen’s mind was seldom still, and he took in the neighborhood instead.

Passing one awning covered establishment after another, he noted that most of the restaurants were packed to capacity, filled with alphas and betas enjoying what was probably the last touch of summer heat. Trees planted here and there amidst the brick and cobblestone sidewalks offered some shade, dappling faces in erratic shadows. Snippets of conversation, between the clank and clatter of cutlery, drifted out into the street for anyone to hear. Jensen always wondered why so many people seemed to enjoy sharing the mundane aspects of their life with such relish. Not only was that present in conversation, but social media, too, he noted.

Growing up without the internet being such a staple like it was currently, Jensen didn’t understand why so many alphas felt the need to post about _everything_ these days. Why should he care if someone was buying shoes or if someone else was feeling depressed about something? It seemed vulgar to him, like literally airing out one’s dirty laundry for all to see and he found no personal value in that. What he did appreciate, however, was because so many did do things like this that whenever he accepted a case, there was almost always a treasure trove of information online for those savvy enough to mine it. People even seemed foolish enough to post photos without first scrubbing the geolocation data that was embedded within most of them. They might as well hand over a road map for lawyers like him to know exactly where and when they had been someplace and it made tracking people infinitely easier. Jensen would gladly accept the information with open hands.

“…and I know the hype around autism, but I had my kids vaccinated…” drifted over to him, rousing Jensen from his internal monologue. “But my kid still got the measles,” the unknown alpha complained. “For whatever reason, even my beta caught ‘em and he’d been vaccinated as a kid, too.”

Jensen resisted the urge to turn back and look directly at the source of the conversation. Measles had been a hot-button item in the news lately. It was so much of a recent issue that although he didn’t travel too frequently for business any longer (clients came to him these days), Jensen had requested his physician re-inoculate him during his last physical. No point in taking any chances. And one never knew when one might come into contact with a carrier. There seemed to be a surge of those lately, smearing their germ-ridden hands everywhere. The one good thing to come out of it, however, was that many parents who had held onto false beliefs that the vaccinations were actually causing certain health issues were grudgingly getting on board with the program these days.

Long before K Street was in sight, Jensen spotted the two distinctively curved towers that comprised much of the postmodern architecture which was collectively known as Washington Harbor. Casting a quick glance to his left, he noted that Tahmoh wasn’t completely immune to the weather and a fine line of sweat had started to form tiny pearls of moisture along his hairline. Although he was loath to show any sign of weakness before him, Jensen eventually caved in and asked, “Have you ever attended one of these before?” when he realized he had no idea where exactly they were going and how things were organized.

The falsely-emerald eyes swept over him haughtily and Jensen knew the older man wanted so desperately to lord over him in this, but couldn’t. There was the slightest inward curve to his shoulders when the alpha replied, “No.” He hastily added, “But Fuller and I have talked about them in the past.” It wasn’t lost on Jensen that he didn’t feel the need to add the honorific title at the beginning of the Father’s name, like they were somehow on the same level.

“Mr. Fuller has gone before?” Jensen prodded, not wasting an opportunity to glean more intel on his employers. Information always had value.

The brunet nearly scoffed at Jensen’s apparent ignorance. “Fuller’s been to _dozens_ of these.”

“For the firm, of course,” Jensen replied knowingly, hoping that would make Tahmoh want to correct him if he was in the wrong. He could always count on the other alpha’s need to one-up him when he could.

Tahmoh side-eyed him before answering. “For the firm and for himself.” He smiled at the last part, tongue licking his lips like he was enjoying a secret memory.

That tidbit was news to Jensen, although it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise. The firm was well-established and now with an inroad to the government, they were quite financially sound. It should have been a given that at least one of the Fathers would indulge in such a luxury. In an attempt to appear in-the-know as well, Jensen nodded along. “Of course, it makes sense he would have one,” he stated.

Tahmoh’s smirk grew. “One?” he questioned innocently. And then he tossed out a laugh like an afterthought.

Jensen should have done a better job at schooling his expressions, but he was honestly flabbergasted at the implication that Mr. Fuller might own more than one pet. The money alone to acquire one was considerably substantial, but to have a second? Jensen couldn’t begin to wrap his head around that. After all, an alpha with multiple omegas harkened back to times best forgotten, when alphas were more animal than civilized and ran in packs. Jensen wasn’t able to picture the slowly-growing-soft Father as some crazed pack leader, growling and snapping at intruders while protecting his “mates”. It simply didn’t compute.

Some of his confusion must have seeped through, because Tahmoh threw back his head and let out a genuine laugh, deep from his belly. It caused enough of a stir that a few sidewalk dinners turned their way briefly before returning their attention to their meals when there was nothing of worth to see.

“Your face,” he gasped, wiping at his eyes, probably aware of Jensen’s befuddlement, and slapped him on his shoulder. “You have so much to learn.”

Jensen grinned sheepishly, deciding that silence was the better part of valor. If his reaction was enough to loosen Tahmoh’s lips, he’d play up the green pup act for all it was worth.

“I just can’t…” he trailed off, looking slightly upward at his companion with uncertainty clearly visible.

Tahmoh seemed to take stock of Jensen and then nodded to himself. “Just you wait until you attend one of the special partner gatherings,” he intoned sagely, nodding again like Jensen had passed some kind of test. “Just wait and see,” he promised.

They continued the rest of the way to the harbor in silence. Jensen turned over the image of Mr. Fuller again and again in the light of the new information. It didn’t make sense to him.

_“…the WHO has declared a health emergency in the Democratic Republic of the Congo on the heels of the most recent contagion figures released. While not at the staggering numbers of the 2014 Ebola epidemic, current numbers suggest…”_

Jensen turned back, trying to catch a glimpse of the news broadcast coming from Nick’s Riverside Grill, but Tahmoh had picked up the pace and he wasn’t able to. While he had no clients that would be directly affected, Jensen couldn’t help but wonder how another epidemic had arisen so soon after the last. He thought he’d read recently that there was a vaccine that had actually shown a great deal of promise against Ebola and this should have been a non-issue now. He made a mental note to review his current caseload to make sure none of the keiretsu’s investments might be affected by this breaking development.

Tahmoh weaved deftly through the afternoon crowd of tourists and diners and Jensen was forced to follow him, not entirely sure of where they were going beyond the riverside. He recalled from previous paperwork that the seasonal auctions were held on Little Island, which was slightly south of the more popular Theodore Roosevelt Island. And while Theodore Roosevelt Island, more than ten times the size of its neighbor, was a tourist attraction with its parks, hiking and historical, indigenous flora, Little Island was virtually inaccessible. That made it the perfect location for the auctions.

Once past the rotunda fountains centered between the restaurants and boutiques that curved gracefully around it, Tahmoh angled them back in a northwest direction along the wooden walkway that curved along the waterfront. He and Tahmoh dodged past cyclists, selfie-taking tourists and the smaller water taxis tethered along the pier until a larger, sleeker vessel came into view.

Docked a suitable distance from the smaller ferries and dinner cruise ships was what could only have been a private yacht. Jensen estimated it was a 124-footer at least, all smooth lines in white with heavily tinted privacy windows on its two decks and an open skydeck above that was empty. The gangway was cordoned off with a line of security personnel along each side. When they were nearer, Jensen saw that a blonde alpha, dressed smartly in a white linen suit, stood beside the roped-off entrance. She had an iPad tucked under her arm, smiling at passing tourists and looky-loos that tried to see into the vessel behind her. When her polite expression wasn’t enough of a deterrent to the uninvited, the looming presence of official security seemed to do the trick. No one lingered for very long.

“Can I be of some assistance, gentlemen?” the woman said by way of a greeting when they stopped in front of her.

Tahmoh reached into his suit pocket and pulled out his leather billfold, extracting two key-cards he had tucked inside. Jensen watched as the woman slid one after the other into a chip-reader she had plugged into one end of her tablet. She swiped across a screen or two before handing the cards back to Tahmoh. He immediately tucked them away and Jensen guessed there would be hell to pay if he lost those.

“Just one more formality,” the woman said apologetically, holding up the iPad by way of an explanation.

Moving to stand closer together, they both allowed her to take their photographs. Apparently, security was exceptionally tight for the event. When she finished entering in all the necessary data, the woman reached around, unclasped the velvet rope and bowed her head slightly.

“Alphas, welcome to _The Elite_.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got away from me, so I've broken it in half. The good news is that the next chapter will be up by the weekend. The "bad" news is this chapter doesn't have as much action as some of you might have hoped.

Tahmoh took the lead along the gangway, but Jensen was fine with that. Staying a step behind the other alpha would provide him with a little cover while he surreptitiously took in his surroundings. A well-appointed deck hand immediately greeted them when they came aboard.

“Alphas,” he motioned to his right, “the bar is currently open. Might I suggest you consider a drink? We hope to be underway in another ten minutes.”

Tahmoh nodded and entered the enclosed bar, holding the door open for Jensen.

“Thanks,” he murmured, taking in the room before him.

Paneled entirely in teak, the cocktail lounge was bustling with activity. There must have been thirty to forty people milling about. Some stood toward the center of the room, while others were seated or standing near those seated at the marble countertop tables that were lined up against the floor to ceiling windows. There were both male and female alphas present, all impeccably dressed in suits of various dark colors. Nodding to the few that took notice of their entrance, Jensen and Tahmoh made their way to the bar situated in the center of the room.

“What’ll it be, gentlemen?” the petite beta behind the bar asked them.

“I’ll take a double rum and Coke,” Tahmoh replied and then turned to Jensen.

He didn’t really want any alcohol, preferring to take everything in with a clear head, but it was obviously expected he order something.

“Dewar's on the rocks with a soda back,” he said.

“Coming right up.”

While the bartender got their drinks, Jensen turned around and leaned casually back against the brass hand rail circling the bar, using the time to people-watch.

His first impressions of the alphas around them were that they were familiar with each other. At least, the small groups gathered around the tables seemed involved in comfortable conversation. Jensen wondered if many, like Mr. Fuller, were repeat customers and purchasing their second or third pet, or if they were “virgins” like Tahmoh. At a glance, Jensen didn’t recognize anyone else, but the wafts of conversation that drifted his way weren’t entirely in English, either. Catching snippets of German and then Swahili, he found himself wondering just how far some of these alphas had come.

“Gentlemen,” the bartender spoke up.

Turning back around, Jensen watched her slide Tahmoh’s disgustingly sweet drink toward him before she did the same for Jensen. Tahmoh immediately picked up his already sweating glass, while Jensen toyed first with his glass of scotch and then soda, rubbing tracks through the perspiration with his thumb. It took less than a minute before Tahmoh was clearly bored of his company.

“I think I’m going to mingle,” he said to Jensen, briefly leaning in. Unlike Mr. Lehne, Tahmoh didn’t overindulge in cologne and all Jensen caught was a whiff of his natural musk with a palatable level of pine mixed in; it wasn’t unappealing.

Jensen cocked his head toward his two glasses apologetically. “I think I’m stuck here for a bit.” And that had been his plan all along, knowing that his order would effectively tether him to the bar. Trying to greet people with both hands full would have been awkward to say the least.

Tahmoh nodded understandingly before he waded into the growing crowd of alphas, a few more entering the lounge since they’d arrived. Jensen wondered why no one was enjoying the outside portion of the cocktail lounge or the sky deck above, given the heat. Taking another gander at the heavily tinted windows, the only reason he could come up with was no one wanted to be recognized while they were still docked. Jensen sipped his whiskey for a few moments longer before switching to the soda, watching while Tahmoh ingratiated himself into one of the nearby cliques. Once he was sure Tahmoh was no longer aware of him, Jensen abandoned his whiskey all together, pushing away from the bar with just his soda.

Jensen drifted from one area to the next, always remaining on the periphery. From snapshots of conversation, he gathered that at least a quarter of the alphas in the lounge were not citizens. Mentally reviewing some of the paperwork he had pushed through in the past, Jensen recalled that all owners of omegas were at least _supposed_ to be residents, if not citizens. He wasn’t sure if that meant these alphas were proxies or what. He was momentarily frustrated by his general ignorance of the overall proceedings and regretted abandoning his whiskey back at the bar.

“Here you go, laddie,” a Scottish brogue offered from behind him.

Jensen turned around and then had to look down to discover the owner of that accent.

An alpha that barely reached his shoulders was standing next to him, wearing the most skintight dress he had ever seen. Given the relentless way that it hugged her legs, he wondered how she was able to move. The woman had fiery-red hair—its coils snaking down her back—and a complexion so fair, she must have had roots in County Cork. In her outstretched hand, she held a drink that smelled suspiciously like a fresh whiskey on the rocks.

Deftly abandoning his soda on the tray of the nearest passing waiter, Jensen graciously accepted the beverage.

“Thank you,” he said, bowing ever so slightly to her.

She batted her long, thick, clearly-fake eyelashes at him and smirked. “You look like you needed a real drink.” And she tossed her head in the direction of the departing staff with his guilty soda glass winking in the light.

Sipping slowly to gather his thoughts when he realized she must have been studying him, Jensen merely nodded. He grimaced appreciatively at the brand she had chosen for him: aged, smoky and perfect.

Without waiting for a response, she slipped her slender arm around his left and began to walk him toward the stairs forward of the bar. Jensen was momentarily too shocked to protest and allowed her to take the lead. Stepping mindfully of her impressively high heels, Jensen realized they were headed to the sky deck and the open air. While part of him worried that there was some unspoken protocol being broken, he decided to go with the flow.

“It’s too crowded down there,” his mysterious companion remarked when they were outside. “Don’t you think?”

When they established themselves near the railing (and he was sure she wouldn’t fall), Jensen turned to face her directly.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he replied, hoping to sound like it wasn’t his first time.

The woman, probably close to his age if Jensen were to wager, merely pursed her ruby-red lips and smirked up at him. “Come now,” she teased. “a greenhorn like yourself couldn’t possibly know how many come to these things. You know, it’s a crime to hear lies leave a mouth like that.” She paused, her gaze growing sultry and then added cheekily, “But I’m sure those lips could drive an angel herself to sin.”

Jensen blinked his long lashes at her and, before he could stop himself, laughed deeply.

“It’s that obvious, ma’am?” he drawled, letting a little bit of Texas seep out. If he couldn’t pass as someone in the know, he decided to slip on the guise of a lost country boy, heavy on the “Aw, shucks”.

The other alpha teased her tongue along the sharp edge of her upper teeth, contemplating her companion. “I don’t know who you’re trying to fool with that bumpkin act, but it certainly isn’t me.” And she smoothed down her bangs after a breeze ruffled them slightly.

Jensen pushed out his lips and tilted his head. “Touché,” he acknowledged. Whoever she was, she was sharp.

“Ruth Connell,” she announced, a slim hand offered in greeting.

“Jensen Ackles,” he replied, swallowing up her hand with his. While it might have been slight, there was strength in her slender grasp.

When they parted, she dragged a finger around the rim of her colorful drink, while she regarded him with her slate-green stare. “I recognized you the moment you stepped onboard,” she admitted. “It’s not often we get a celebrity such as yourself here.”

“Celebrity?” he gave her a crooked grin, before licking his full lips. “I wouldn’t call myself that, Ms. Connell.” And he raised his glass in a mock toast.

She held up her hand. “Ruth, please, but if you value your knot, don’t even think of trying ‘Ruthie’.”

Jensen nearly spit out his whiskey. This alpha was brash and frank. He was challenged and delighted by turns. “I won’t be making that mistake,” he answered, trying his best to mimic her beautiful brogue.

“See that you don’t. I’m sure it would be a tragedy felt ‘round the world if you were to become unmanned.” She sipped at her cocktail daintily, never once smudging her lipstick. “I was merely acknowledging the elephant in the room regarding your notoriety. No way you wouldn’t be noticed,” she said. “There are many alphas out there who appreciate the precedent you set two years ago and we know who you are.”

Jensen took another swig of his whiskey and nodded, turning to lean on the rail with bent arms. “Just doing my job,” he replied with the rote comment he used regarding his landmark case, not entirely comfortable with the implications of her last statement. The river, warm from the unusually hot day, stank a little of algae, rank and ripe.

“And that’s why it was appreciated,” she continued. “Too many people seem hellbent on erasing history and our place in it. We need more boyos such as yourself to remind everyone how the world works and what their place in it is.”

Jensen wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but the sudden jolt of motion of the boat saved him when Ruth lost her balance. He caught her elbow and helped her regain surer footing.

“So gallant,” she purred, reaching down to adjust her dress. “It’s lovely, but far more trouble than it’s worth sometimes,” she admitted with a wry glance at her ridiculously tight skirt. “But I don’t need to explain the importance of appearances to one such as yourself.”

“You do look stunning in it,” Jensen assured her. But seeing her like that made him wonder all the more what the auction was actually going to be like. She was certainly not kitted out for anything less than a ballroom. “How long will it take to get there?” he asked, wanting to move the discussion away from talk about himself, his gaze following the direction the boat was travelling.

“Little Swan isn’t even half a mile down the river, but the captain will make a nice, leisurely pass or two before docking.” Leaning closer, she added quietly, “It will give them time to get the lot here good and liquored up, help to loosen the purse strings at the main event.” And her laughter was like glass breaking.

Jensen nodded and braced his forearms against the rail, whiskey glass swinging from his tented fingers. “One of the reasons I don’t plan on having another,” he returned the confidence.

“Ach, laddie, where’s the fun in that?” she lamented, lightly slapping his bicep.

“I’m not here to have fun.”

“That’s what we’re all here for,” she countered, but he remained impassive. Ruth tilted her head and regarded him for a few seconds. “Hmph,” she sniffed. Looking down at the waters of the Potomac, she clicked a nail along the white guardrail in an off-beat tempo. “Then why are ye here?” she finally asked him.

Jensen shifted his stance to face her more fully. “You know who I am,” he started and she nodded once. “Therefore, you know my firm and our relationship with the auctions.”

“I do indeed. That still doesn’t tell me why _you’re_ here.” She moved from the railing to tap that long fingernail against his tie instead.

“It was just my turn,” he lied, unwilling to share more than that with this near-stranger. Savoring his liquor, he turned the tables on her. “And you’re here _just_ for fun?”

“Ah, a little,” she paused and pulled her finger back to twirl a circle in the air, “quid pro quo? Isn’t that what you lawyers like to say?”

“It is,” he acknowledged.

“Fair enough, my boy. It’s no secret really and once we dock, you’ll find out eventually.” She sipped daintily at her barely-touched cocktail. Apparently, Jensen wasn’t the only one maintaining a clear head. “I run an establishment that caters to alphas and their pets.”

“Really?” he drawled, mind racing to figure out exactly what that might mean. As far as Jensen knew, alpha kept their pets secluded for the most part. Oh, a particularly showy owner might take theirs with them to special events, but it wasn’t like you saw one being walked through the park every day. He should have guessed there might be exclusive clubs for omega-owners. It was simply, for the most part, that Jensen chose not to think about them at all.

Ruth regarded him shrewdly. “I can see that impressive brain of yours a twistin’ and a turnin’. It’s not what you think,” she informed him before grinning devilishly. “Or maybe it is,” she teased.

Before Jensen could even come up with a response, the sound of other alphas interrupted them. Leaning around the slight woman, Jensen watched a couple of men make their way up the stairs to the sky deck. Ruth followed his gaze, finished her drink in a surprisingly long swallow and tossed the glass into the waters below.

“I’m sure I’ll run into you at the auction,” she assured Jensen before carefully walking away, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

The new arrivals offered him a variety of acknowledgements before moving farther down the deck. He couldn’t help but notice two or three give him a second consideration and then bow their heads together in discreet conversation. Uncomfortable being the focus of any attention when he wasn’t in a courtroom, Jensen downed the rest of his whiskey in one swig and briefly contemplated tossing away the heavy crystal tumbler much like Ruth had. Instead, he nodded once more to the new arrivals and went back down the stairs.

In the main lounge, Jensen walked past the bar and waved off the silent offer of a refill. If what Ruth said was true, he was going to make sure not to allow anyone or anything to affect his judgement today. Despite not necessarily wanting to continue his conversation with her, Jensen still found himself searching for a glimpse of her red curls, but came up empty. Tahmoh appeared to have moved out to the exterior lounge along with the circle he had glommed onto. The taller alpha caught his eye and gave a quick jerk of his chin—the briefest of acknowledgments—before immersing himself back into his current conversation.

Jensen was fine with that, too busy trying to suss out what a club for alphas and omegas would be like, all the while pushing back that spectral wail he always heard, to some degree, on those rare occasions he let himself think about omegas for too long. Compartmentalizing the issue was easy enough, telling himself that he would run a full background check on one Ms. Ruth Connell when he got back to the office after the long weekend. He was sure all his questions would be put to rest then.

With little more to do than people watch while _The Elite_ leisurely sliced through the waters of the Potomac like Ruth had foretold, Jensen quickly grew restless. A few more alphas made subtle acknowledgements in his general direction, but no one else approached him with the audacity that Ruth had. He found himself counting the minutes until they arrived, once again questioning his decision to be there.

It took another painful thirty minutes before the captain announced over the speakers, “Ladies and gentlemen, please prepare for docking.”

“Finally,” Jensen groaned to himself, handing off the empty glass he had clung to since his oddly personal conversation with the petite red-head to the nearest deck hand.

The docking was silky smooth, with hardly a jounce to the vessel when they dropped anchor or whatever boats did. Jensen was not that well versed on nautical endeavors. There was no denying, however, the sudden uptick of excited murmurings he heard around him. Alphas whispered amongst themselves and Jensen caught, more than once, the passing reference to the “beast” amongst the current herd. Apparently, Jensen wasn’t the only one who had noticed that particular omega. Despite telling himself it only made sense they would be interested in such an anomaly like the one Jensen hadn’t been able to tear his gaze from, his nostrils flared uncontrollably at the way they casually joked about him. _It_ , he corrected himself. _It_. When he realized he had balled his hands into fists, Jensen shook out his fingers, unconsciously wiggling them to Sorabji’s coda for his _Opus Clavicembalisticum_ , and visibly forced himself to relax. He blamed the uncharacteristic reaction to the boat ride, close quarters and liquor on an empty stomach. Believing a walk on solid ground would do him good, Jensen quickly joined the unofficial line of people orderly disembarking the vessel. It was probably also a good idea to remain close to Tahmoh since the older man still retained possession of both their admission cards, so he caught up to him easily enough while they waited to leave.

Sure enough, at the bottom of the gangway, a somewhat officious looking alpha not dressed like a crewmember from _The Elite_ was waiting for them, iPad in his hand. One by one, each alpha went through nearly an identical process they did to board, only this time they were matched to their photos instead of having one taken. Jensen thought the extra security measures seemed like overkill until he remembered how close the island was to neighboring Teddy Roosevelt Island, which was completely open to the public. One could only get on that island by foot, no cars or bikes allowed whatsoever, via a footbridge. But that wouldn’t preclude someone trying to swim here, he realized. And, given the nature of what the island was host to, Jensen figured more than one person had possibly already tried that.

Once cleared through the checkpoint, Jensen got his first good look at the place. At a glance, Little Island didn’t appear to be more than an overgrown forest and Jensen found himself unconsciously looking for Ruth, if only to see how the woman could possibly totter along in those stilettos on the dirt path that they all dutifully trailed down, but he still couldn’t spot her. Given her fiery locks, it was mildly surprising. A different official wordlessly lead them into the woods. Most made their way single file down the roughed-out trail—little more than dirt and rocks—and despite the shade provided by the oak, birch and maple trees that grew with wild abandon all around him, Jensen started to sweat and found his finger snaking up toward his tie to loosen the perfect Windsor knot cinched tight around his neck until it rested below his collarbones. The unseasonably warm weather was undeniable, trudging through the wild greenery like they were, everything heavy and moist. At least the trees kept him out of the sun, he told himself, and less chance of freckling. He also realized the dense canopy protected the area from unwanted aerial surveillance from drones and such, with branches and leaves completely obscuring the endless, blue sky above. That couldn’t be a coincidence, he decided.

Only hushed whispers travelled up and down the line they made, but there was no denying the growing excitement. Despite his best efforts to resist, Jensen scented _something_ undefinable in the air. Each step that brought them deeper into the tangled greenery blurred their civilized veneer. Jensen watched while more than one man peeled off his jacket and a few of the women slipped out of their expensive Manolo Blahnik heels to flex and bunch their pedicured toes in the loamy soil, while their $600 shoes dangled carelessly from their fingers. He wondered if that was what Ruth had done, leaving the petite alpha even shorter, barefoot and harder to spot somewhere down the line. Once Jensen caught sight of Tahmoh—who had long since pushed ahead of him—flinging his jacket over his shoulder, Jensen caved in. He yanked his tie free and balled up the thin strip of silk, shoving it into his pants’ pocket, nearly popping a button in his efforts to loosen his shirt collar. The air was thick with building anticipation and he had broken out into a light sweat.

When his patience had about run thin with the back to nature shit, Jensen noticed a break in the trees not too far ahead. There wasn’t a flooding of light like he expected when they neared, but the trees did thin out, making for a wider path. Even still, he stumbled on a root across the way and nearly crashed into the alpha in front of him before he righted himself. By the time he looked up, not only had the trees thinned, the area had opened up enough to reveal a small-scale arena, loosely styled after the ones from ancient Rome. Jensen, like most alphas, had been somewhat mesmerized by tales of the gladiators and the infamous Alpha Games of antiquity.

Glancing around, he didn’t know what kind of stone was used, but Jensen marveled at the sand colored slabs that comprised the “floor” of the space the prospective buyers were all spreading out over. Each easily ten by twenty feet in size, they must have cost a pretty penny to install here. Unlike a traditional arena, there were no stadium seats, however, with the slabs forming a basic circular floor with a single curved wall that looked to be about twenty feet high and ninety feet long running along the far side, not quite a semi-circle. Everything else was open to nature and the old-growth trees provided natural cover that shaded the entire location but brought little relief from the humidity. Jensen found himself undoing another button on his shirt while he waited with the others for whatever was next. He just didn’t know what that was.

He didn’t have to wait long before an alpha, dressed impeccably in a pure white, three-piece linen suit stepped out easily from behind the wall, walking stick clicking on the stones in time not unlike Jensen’s metronome. He was white like his suit, with black hair shot through with slashes of gray and a mustachioed goatee that gave him a seriously devilish look. Coupled with the slightly unruly way his hair curled back from his face in waves, his vaguely unkempt appearance hinted at something dangerous.

“Welcome, y’all,” he crooned, every bit the Virginian gentleman, voice giving away that he hailed from somewhere south of the Shenandoah Valley. All extraneous conversation ceased. “I am so pleased you were able to join me here today.” He paused to scan the crowd, taking each one in briefly like the genial host he appeared to be. Jensen did the same, silently tallying the number of alphas in attendance. There couldn’t have been much more than a hundred and, remembering the number of omegas he had seen herded past his office, Jensen deduced a lot of losers would be returning home today.

“For those of y’all that are new,” and Jensen swore he paused a beat while looking directly at him before continuing on, “my name is Jeffery Vincent Parise. And let me say that y’all are in for a fine treat today.”

There was a rumble that passed through the gathered alphas like thunder before a storm and a few heads nodded in agreement. Jensen didn’t miss the implication that many in the gathering were repeat customers. He filed that away for later contemplation.

“But where are my manners?” he continued and snapped his fingers. From both sides of the wall, a swarm of wait staff—each one decked out in white coat and tails—appeared like magic, carrying trays heavily laden with flutes of champagne and bowls of strawberries, raspberries and other less common fruits like lychee and mangosteen. “Please, refresh yourselves on such an unseasonably warm day.” He paused to pluck a glass from the first waiter to pass. “I myself would much prefer the crisp taste of a mint julip, but I understand that can be a bit of an acquired taste. Cristal should be more than acceptable for the majority, I think.” He raised his flute toward the crowd, playing the role of a garden-party host with aplomb.

Jensen refused the offer of a glass from that same waiter. He was more determined than ever to remain clear-headed despite the gleeful way the other alphas indulged themselves on the Veblen goods they were offered. Flutes were snatched up as soon as they appeared and the low murmur of conversation, although subdued, resumed.

“Don’t be shy,” the man urged those in attendance and, once again, Jensen felt the older alpha’s gaze directed at him. “After all,” he smiled, biting into a succulent strawberry he stole off the tray of another wait staff, “where’s the harm?” And Jensen wondered if this was how the Judeo-Christian Omega tempted the first female Alpha—Eve—from the garden, with ripe, red fruit and treacherous promises. Making sure no one was watching him too closely, Jensen reluctantly accepted a slim glass of the golden liquid. He could toy with it, he told himself. After all, he was always in control and didn’t have to drink it. No harm in playing along and blending in.

Some twenty feet away, Tahmoh raised his glass to him in what would have been a toast had anyone else done it, but there was no missing the innate challenge in the gesture directed at Jensen. Not missing a beat, Jensen returned it in kind and took a small sip. Champagne always tickled his nose, but this was creamy and delicate, more tantalizing than giddy. He snatched a section of mangosteen from another waiter, and noted, with some surprise now that he’d made a closer inspection, the staff member was an alpha. That didn’t sit well with Jensen at some deeper level. But then it dawned on him why an alpha would be performing such a menial job. There wasn’t a single beta on the entire island. Chewing on the milky-white section of fruit, Jensen’s phone vibrated discreetly. Sucking the juice off his fingers and cursing the lack of a napkin, he extracted the device from his pocket, careful not to touch more of the material than he absolutely had to, and thumbed it open. On the screen was a text from Mr. Lehne.

_Just thought you should know we disbursed quarterly bonuses a little early. Have fun, champ! Make me proud!_

Jensen frowned at the screen. He glanced up at Tahmoh, but the other alpha was chatting amiably with a woman dressed in a somber Channel suit. He either had his phone turned off or hadn’t received the same text, which would be even more odd because Jensen was certain the other man would have qualified for a bonus as well. With another swipe of his thumb, Jensen opened up the app for his personal accounts. and despite the ability he had to school his features, his eyes still widened at the total now in his account. Sensing unwanted gazes once again directed at him, Jensen discreetly returned his phone to his pocket. He took a larger swallow of the champagne and contemplated what it all meant.

“Let me remind y’all now,” their host called out, “that we will be going dark, as it were, in five minutes. I suggest that your finances are in order and that your bread baskets are full. We have quite the afternoon in store and y’all won’t want to miss a second of it.”

The quiet rumble of conversation grew and Jensen saw most of the others pulled out their digital devices and checked them. Three or four near him were clearly placing calls and the rest were quickly thumbing apps open and closed. After a moment or two longer, one by one, they all put them away. Jensen moved his phone to a special pocket he had inside his jacket that allowed him to discreetly view the screen through it. That feature had come in handy in court more than once for him. After what Parise had just said, he had a theory he wanted to test and didn’t want to embarrass himself by appearing a novice to yet another alpha today.

Waiters flitted about, replenishing drinks and snacks. Jensen found himself with a new flute of champagne, slightly startled that he didn’t remember accepting it. He vowed to watch his consumption and sipped at the pale liquor delicately. Looking to his side, he noted that Tahmoh was now staring at their host and nothing else. Having studied his colleague in court over the last few years, Jensen saw the slight tells the other alpha had when he was excited or anxious: the change in stature, the way he held the muscles supporting his spine and the unwavering way his blinking slowed. Tahmoh was clearly both anxious _and_ excited, emotions he rarely displayed together. Whether it was because of that fact or simply the slow-growing restlessness that passed through the small crowd of alphas like an incoming tide, Jensen wasn’t immune to it, either. He drank liberally from his glass and also found himself staring at the master of ceremonies, waiting for something to happen. He didn’t have to wait long.

Parise raised his hands in the air, cane waving about, an obvious affectation given his steady gait and just one more piece of showmanship. “Dear gentlefolk, without further ado,” he addressed them, “welcome to the Autumnal Omega Auction.”

The crowd politely applauded in return. Hesitating briefly, Jensen eventually joined them. After all, it was why he was there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, a certain tall omega will _finally_ make a reappearance in the next chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I want to remind folks about the "Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings" warning. This is a slave fic, with all the problematic power imbalance that entails. Also, although this is an AU, it closely mirrors ours and this chapter touches briefly on their version of the Holocaust. You have been warned even though I said I wouldn't warn for stuff.
> 
> Also, this contains a slightly NSFW image (bare, male buttocks).

Parise pirouetted around and pointed his walking stick toward the curved wall like it was his arm. The smooth surface slowly dimmed and revealed a hidden, secondary purpose to the structure—it was also a video screen. Softly, at first, music began to bleed out from hidden speakers. Jensen recognized the telltale buzzing quality of bassoons heralding the Introitus of Mozart’s Requiem long before the choir confirmed it. While the music soothed a part of him, the chords’ syncopated and staggered structures also set his teeth on edge; the push and pull tossing his emotions about like a ship in rough seas. Before he had time to try and analyze his feelings, Parise spoke again.

“We are gathered here today,” the man intoned like a Sunday preacher presiding over mass, while walking off to the left of his makeshift stage, “to fulfill our _obligations_ and our _rights_ as alphas over those known only as omegas. As I am wont to do on these occasions, let us remember the darker days,” he paused for effect while the screen swirled in shades of gray, “that led us to the bright future we now enjoy.”

Those swirls slowed and coalesced into recognizable definition, revealing grainy, black and white film footage. Flickering across the scene, one newsreel after another flashed seamlessly. Artfully faded images of soldiers of all skin colors adorned in black, severe, neatly-tailored uniforms with the unmistakable lightning bolts of Zeus on their red armbands appeared, hands raised in a single-fisted salute toward a mustachioed, white alpha with slicked, dark hair. There was no mistaking what decade the images were from; that period of time was seared into the collective alpha memory.

The mechanical yet prideful kick-step marching of thousands crossfaded into images of wide-eyed and dirty-faced omegas, clothes adorned with a red “Ω” emblazoned on their filthy shirts and torn dresses, huddled behind the barbed wire fences of makeshift pens. Mozart’s music melded and transformed into a children’s choir singing "Oyfn Pripetshik". The recording had the distinctive crackle and pop of an old album, adding to the removed quality of the presentation. More images of omegas—cowering and grimy—filled the screen, their eyes huge and lifeless.

Jensen swallowed hard, mind automatically translating what Yiddish words he knew. The song was something his great-grandmother had sung to him a long time ago.

“ _On the hearth, a fire burns,_  
 _And in the house it is warm._  
 _And the rabbi is teaching little children,_  
 _The alphabet._ ”

The stricken faces onscreen morphed into reels of worldwide strife, soldiers from all countries now fighting one another with a savagery that hadn’t been seen since. While the clear, sweet, childish voices carried on, homes were destroyed, images of soldiers—dead—littered across foreign battlefields filled the screen. Dull, orange-red poppies peeked out from amongst the fallen, the only color CGI’d into the clips.

“ _When you grow older, children,_  
 _You will understand by yourselves,_  
 _How many tears lie in these letters,_  
 _And how much lament._ ”

The screen practically erupted into the tell-tale shape of the mushroom cloud that resulted after “Little Alpha” was dropped on Eurasia, wiping out at least half a million victims. Bodies strewn about and, more frighteningly, the camera panned across the landscape to reveal only shadows left against half-crumbled walls, the dead there totally disintegrated. Complete and utter annihilation. And then it morphed into one of the most famous photos of that century: the historic meeting of all the world’s alpha leaders, decked out in their finest militia regalia, signing the unilateral peace treaty that had staved off complete nuclear destruction.

“Today,” the scratchy voice of the former President intoned, flanked by other prominent leaders on either side of the podium he spoke from, “is a day that will be remembered not for the untold horrors that were perpetrated on the omegas out of heinous fear and ignorance, but one where cooler alpha heads finally prevailed and further bloodshed was averted. Today,” he continued, “we have signed a peace accord that will not only stop all hostilities immediately, but will also allow us to protect the omegas as they always should have been. We have made mistakes in the past that we will not repeat. Never again, I say, never again. We will take care of them as they always should have been.”

The screen changed to one of ticker tape parades, with decorated soldiers riding in open-air vehicles receiving the joyous accolades from the public, while other images simultaneously displayed U.S. military freeing omegas from their pens and directing the frail and sickly creatures into larger military transports. Antiquated newspapers spun into focus, some displaying the newly created omega sanctuary housing where omegas were slowly repatriated to. Other headlines zipped across the stone wall as one leading member of the scientific community after another demonstrated how omegas had been mistakenly identified as the same class as alphas and betas, but groundbreaking genetic studies proved they were actually one step _down_ in the evolutionary chain, more in line with canids than them. Biology text titles appeared next along with photos from grade schools where row after row of alphas and betas stared with rapt fascination at chalkboard diagrams that outlined the biological difference between their divergent species and how it had been easy to confuse the two in the recent past.

The screen filled with the looming, slightly-wrinkled, white face of famed geneticist Julian Richings, well regarded as the father of modern genetics. Staring directly at the camera, the hawk-nosed alpha dropped the bombshell that changed the course of current history. Calmly, in a cultured, even voice, the scientist explained how omega packs—living in direct contact with alphas and betas—actually detrimentally affected the health of others. He had studies from years of work that conclusively proved that omega pheromones produced low levels of toxicity when they congregated in groups. This “omega cloud” adversely affected alphas especially, driving them to revert to baser instincts, nearly wiping out their intellectual thought processes. Only the strongest of alphas could handle omegas in more than a one-on-one situation and retain their sanity. His work further concluded that while the methods employed by the “Lichtblitz” forces during the Omega Wars had been poorly executed, his research now proved they had been misguided efforts at obeying their biological imperative and were only trying to protect their kind.

“Alphas and betas are able to sublimate their wolves, while omegas are prey to them and, as such,  a danger to us all,” he stated.

Like always, the profound revelation caused a collective gasp from crowd despite the fact that every alpha learned this in their preschool days.

 “So,” the older alpha continued calmly, “while nothing can ever change the terrible way they went about it, those alphas were only, in the end, victims of their own misunderstood biology. As is so often the case with history, we are able to look back at it with clear eyes and a greater understanding of the forces at work then. We have the luxury of being able to see the bigger picture.”

Other historic news bulletins flashed by. After Richings’ announcement, it didn’t take long before protests and fighting broke out in the streets as citizens began to demand the removal of omegas from the special housing projects within the city limits. Clips pf angry alphas waving signs and chanting, “Send ‘em back” grew louder and louder.

Jensen winced at the current volume that competed against the teary wail in the back of his mind.

Additional sanctuaries were created, farther afield from the cities while the growing health crisis gripped the nation. While still dated, the footage on the screen evolved into true video feeds. Omegas were stripped of their clothing when packed into specialized hazmat vehicles that removed the threat from the general populace to the resounding cheers of onlookers, both on and off-screen.

The wall went dark for a few seconds and Jensen rubbed at the back of his neck, startled at the amount of perspiration he found there. He smeared his hand carelessly down the outside of his jacket and remembered his earlier plan. He pulled one flap open far enough that he was able to see his phone through the special pocket. Like he suspected, there were no bars showing. All communication had been successfully cut off. They were, for all intents and purposes, alone.

“And so, the dawn of a new era began,” a voice boomed from the speakers and Jensen squinted at the flare of light from the screen when a new image blossomed in front of them. As far as the eye could see, golden plains under expansive blue skies spread out before them, bathed in warm sunlight, with no sign of civilization. Off to one side, a growing puff of dust heralded the arrival of vehicles. One by one, omega transports with their staff safely ensconced in the cabs lined up and, in unison, the doors swung open. Timidly, the first brave omegas stuck their heads out from the back of the vans, naked arms wrapped protectively around their eyes to shield them from the light. Jensen knew what was going to happen next and still held his breath along with every other alpha there.

As more and more omegas crowded the openings, it grew clear that not all of them were in their human-like bodies any longer. First one snout, then a second and then a third poked out between the press of flesh. And when enough of the omega wolves were visible, the familiar notes of another song filled the air.

“ _Stay free where no walls divide you_  
 _You're free as the roaring tide_  
 _So there's no need to hide_ ”

The wolves were first to lead the way, bounding off into the tall grass, while others in their still two-legged forms eventually joined them, leaving the vehicles behind without a backward glance. There was no denying the pure joy on their faces while they ran and cavorted in the vast, open spaces. None looked backward, the growing pack surging forward into the sunshine. More applause filled the air, some alphas moved to tears by the sight.

Images winked across the screen after that. Dark-suited alphas on metro lines going to work, stock numbers overlaid, showing the steady and sure rise of the market in the post-war years. No longer subliminally distracted, alphas and betas were able to achieve economic successes previously unheard of. But not everything was rosy. The well-known voice of naturalist Alpha David Attenborough continued on the narration, “But despite the valiant efforts of world leaders, re-homing omegas in the wild did not go as expected.” His decree was followed with shots of both wolves and two-legs looking wan and thin in sparse scrub and oak savannahs, dirty and scrabbling for food. “Eventually,” he continued, “more direct action was needed to prevent complete extinction. It’s uncertain whether it was the length of time that omegas were deprived of their natural habitat or another environmental factor that led to this obvious inability for them to maintain themselves, but the world’s governments were forced to create governing bodies to deal with the growing issues. In the U.S., the Bureau of Omega Management was formed at the behest of newly-elected President Clooney around the turn of the new millennium.”

From a bird’s eye view, parachutes blossomed across the screen like dirty-white dahlias. Packs of wolves swarmed the downed crates, ripping the wood asunder with a ferocity that could only have been born out of rabid hunger. They snapped and snarled at one another with wild abandon, fighting over hunks of meat and bone. Jensen winced at the sight, heartbeat picking up all the same. He gulped down his champagne and didn’t blink when another was placed in his hand. He just kept drinking.

“Eventually, with proper care and herd management,” Attenborough continued, introducing footage that Jensen had never seen before, “a tenuous equilibrium was reached.” Groups of wolves and two-legs ran together across the screen. Those not in their true form were covered in strange markings and smears of ochre yellow and clay-red. “However, with the continued—albeit small—influx of omegas that continues to present day, that balance is constantly at risk.”

_“My baby,” a voice screamed. “Please don’t take my baby!”_

Jensen shook his head and tried to focus on the screen in front of him instead of the past inside of him.

“Our national treasures, those creatures that are very much a part of the fabric that makes up our heritage, are in danger. It once again falls upon the shoulders of alphas everywhere to step up.”

The camera zoomed in on the face of a scruffy wolf, hunkered down under a half-bare bush. The dark fur gave way to skin and solemn, chocolate brown eyes that all but swallowed up the screen. “They need you,” Attenborough finished.

The wall went blank and Parise stepped once more into the spotlight, leading the applause that grew until it was thundering.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he started, “today we have the chance—” He stopped, stared at his feet and shook his head violently from side to side, before looking back into the crowd. “No, not chance. Today, we have the _obligation_ to pick up the mantle and truly _be_ alphas. This pivotal part of our very heritage is vulnerable right now and omegas once again need us to take care of them. But only the very cream of the crop—the best of the best—can bear the burden. Y’all are that cream that has risen above the rest.” He swung his walking stick to the right and shouted, “Now show me what y’all are made of!”

The crowd cheered when two alphas, dressed entirely in black, dragged out an omega female. No longer wearing the shift she must have worn in public, the omega was gloriously nude. Although not what got Jensen excited, she had firm, proud breast and hair a dark shade of brown. But obvious time living under the sun had shot it through with strands of bronze. Her only adornment—a  silver collar—was a stark contrast against her golden skin. No longer chained, she offered little resistance.

Jensen rubbed his throat in unconscious sympathy. Every alpha and beta knew that low-level buzz, like an electrical charge just under the skin, which silver produced. Some alphas wore silver rings and bracelets as a status symbol, like ordering Fugu at a sushi restaurant to display their machismo, but even Jensen knew their increased stamina was what made it bearable. He idly wondered what it must be like for weak omegas to be exposed to it 24/7, but knew it was necessary to keep their beasts in check.

Parise walked behind the omega and ran a hand up her arm. She tried to spin around, but the guards kept her in place. He grabbed a fistful of her long hair and yanked back hard. Her head snapped back sharply. “This little spitfire shows lots of promise.” With his other hand, Parise traced along the curves of her body with his walking stick. By the way she jumped and squirmed, Jensen realized the wolf’s head on the handle must have been pure silver. Each tap caused her to moan and a pulse of omega pheromones was released into the air. The sickly-sweet scent of overripe fruit wafted by. Jensen finished his drink in a single swallow.

“She will make a fine addition to any stable,” he drawled, smile easy and wide. Circling her breasts with his cane, he gave each nipple a tap with the wolf’s head. She shuddered against him. “And for any of y’all that might want to dabble in a little breeding…” a collective gasp filled the air before he could continue.

“Oh, come now. I know we all tow the party line in public, but I happen to know from personal experience more than a few like to indulge. With teats like these, this fine filly could suckle a nice liter. Granted, she’s a might scrawny, but what omega isn’t? Do I hear a million?”

There were some polite murmurs, but no one raised their hand. Jensen dragged his hand down his mouth, fingers catching on the slight stubble over his jaw. He expected the first one auctioned off to be a loss-leader to whet their appetites, but a million for an opening bid? Maybe he was outclassed, he told himself. Maybe this was all a mistake.

When no offer was forthcoming, Parise continued. “Seven hundred and fifty thousand then. She’s healthy with no obvious signs of defect or deformity.” He stepped back and twirled his finger. The guards spun her around and he forced her head down, so only her legs and backside were visible.

“My goodness, y’all are strung tight as a bunch of long-tail cats in a room full of rocking chairs. Fine, fine. Do I hear five hundred thousand then?”

There were louder rumbles, but no one raised their hand. The guards kicked her legs farther apart. Parise walked in front of one of them and dragged his cane across her labia and exposed orifices. The omega let out a howl when he pushed in just the slightest against the opening in the middle. From somewhere behind the screen, muffled cries answered hers. Glossy slick began to ooze down her quivering thighs and the overwhelming smell of spoiled fruit grew stronger.

“One hundred thousand and y’all are robbing me blind,” he nearly spat, turning away and ignoring the crowd. The air was slowly growing heavier and Jensen scratched at his throat.

“100k,” a woman in the back shouted. From where Jensen was standing, he saw the glossy nails from her raised hand gleaming red in the sunlight.

Parise spun around, bent at the knees and cane pointing directly at the woman. “I have one hundred, so do I hear two hundred for this fine specimen?

“Two hundred?” he asked again, but didn’t drop the price when no one responded.

“One hundred going once, twice…sold for one hundred thousand to the lovely alpha in the back!”

The crowd applauded politely, and the woman, dark-skinned with her hair done up in an elaborate series of braids, giggled and raised her glass in return. The others around her patted her on the back or shoulder and the murmurs grew louder.

“You may settle the claim for your pet as soon as the auction ends.” Parise nodded at the guards and the omega was dragged off to the other side of the wall, where she disappeared. A new omega was hauled out before the crowd and now that the ice had been broken, the bidding picked up and quickly grew competitive.

Jensen indulged in another glass of Cristal and bided his time. Surreptitiously scanning the audience, he knew he wasn’t the only alpha doing so. While a quick-burning fever had gripped some of them, others like Tahmoh kept a keen eye and a cool head, all waiting for the outlier of the herd.

Two dozen omegas later, Jensen was agitated. Each subsequent purchase did exactly what it was supposed to—it amped up the crowd. The air was weighted with the oppressive afternoon sun, expectation, and a smell that Jensen rarely experienced. Not quite as intoxicating as the expensive champagne they were being plied with, the omega pheromones still came close. Jensen started to get a sense of what his forefathers must have faced when omegas still mixed with them; the cloud was heady and undeniable. He swiped his tongue along his upper lip, tasting salty sweat when he did so. Pacing from side to side, Jensen didn’t care if he jostled anyone else or not. And he wasn’t alone in his unease.

“Bring out the beast,” a baritone voice called out from the other side of the crowd.

“Yeah,” a few replied and eventually they were all chanting, “Beast, beast, beast.” Jensen ground his teeth together to keep from joining in.

Parise’s assessing look was nothing short of cunning. “What’s that y’all say?”

“Beast!” they yelled back at him.

“What?” he teased, hand cupped around an ear.

“Beast!” they thundered.

Tongue darting out of the corner of his lips, Parise smirked. “Before I bring out the one I think many have been waiting for…” The hoots and groans from the crowd threatened to drown him out.

“Settle down, y’all,” he ordered with a shake of his cane. “We need to take a moment with this one.”

“Beast!” some continued to shout.

“Hush now,” Parise scolded them like a parent about to run out of patience, “or I won’t show you something no one has ever witnessed at auction before.”

That got the crowd to quiet.

“I’ll bet more than one of you has fantasized about how these creatures are rounded up.” Now that he had their attention, Parise milked it for everything he could. “Maybe you saw yourself wrestling an omega to the ground, clamping your jaws over the back of their vulnerable neck and claiming it as your own.”

A few gasped at the shocking image he painted, but most of the crowd was silent, hanging on his every word.

“Oh, you know it’s true,” he dismissed the few naysayers. “Let me show you what it’s really like to catch an omega that’s worthy of the chase.”

He spun back around toward the screen, which exploded into action.

Zipping across the Midwestern savannah, the view from what must have been a drone dipped and weaved through the oaks and across fields of tall grass. Jensen’s body swayed and tilted along with the camera, adding to the unquiet his mind was dealing with. It was like he was there.

Eventually, a herd of omegas came into view. Some were wolves and some were two-legged. The wolves were the first to sense something, growling with ears lying flat back against their skulls. The two-legged ones looked around before they raised their hands toward the camera and then all hell broke loose.

While some were still pointing at the camera, others begin to shift and run in the opposite direction. The distinctive _whup-whup-whup_ of helicopter blades was heard with one after another appearing alongside and then overtaking the drone. One of the chase ‘copters swooped down in pursuit of the frightened herd. Both men and women hung from either side of the aircraft, held in place by webbed harnesses. Each one carried a high-powered rifle in their hands. With careless abandon, they fired into the omegas, whooping in delight when a dart found a target. Whatever they were using was fast-acting since the omega crumpled on contact. Those that had gotten out of range of the ‘copter, but not the drone, soon found themselves no better off.

Camouflaged figures popped up in front of them, some in typical military-style fatigues and gear, while others had full on ghillie suits. They’d been run deliberately into a semi-circle of blinds. The group scattered, mostly fleeing in every direction. The view immediately switched over to body cams, the image jostling up and down as the hunters ran after their prey. Jensen had to swallow back on some bile, the motion making him queasy. A chopper swooped down low, releasing a cloud of gas over the fleeing omegas. It didn’t slow them down, but some coughed and wheezed. When none of the wolves shifted to two-legs and vice-versa, Jensen guessed it was some type of aerosolized silver designed to incapacitate them.

“Left” someone behind the camera shouted, sending a group of alphas in the direction of the main herd.

“C’mon,” a deeper voice pleaded, “all the action is going down without us.” The view rapidly darted in the other direction and multiple alphas were seen grappling with wolves and two-legs. Snarls and screams filled the air.

“There’s something this way,” the owner of the bodycam announced and the point of view shifted back to where they were. A gloved hand appeared in the lower right, pointing out multiple tracks on the ground. Most small but one set stood out.

“Fu—” the second exclaimed, the expletive censored out. “That is one damn big mutt.”

They fell silent then, veering into deeper brush while the sounds of the roundup behind them faded. The hand appeared again, using a variety of signals to indicate they were near something important.

“What the…” the second man began. “Is this a den?”

Snapping jaws exploded into the scene before the other alpha has a chance to respond. Several of the alphas in the arena jerked back in surprise, Jensen included. Suddenly teeth and tongue filled the screen, with patches of blue in between; the alpha was on his back, desperately trying to shove his rifle between those deadly jaws.

“I can’t get a clear shot!” the other man shouted.

“No!” screamed the first. “This one’s mine!”

The arena was absolutely silent, every eye riveted on the tableau in front of them. Parise didn’t say a word, but Jensen caught his widening smile nonetheless.

The view tumbled and twirled while the alpha and the wolf grappled with one another. The shaky footage was almost enough to make Jensen nauseous. When everything finally settled down, the hunter was upright, with the omega wolf—bigger than anything Jensen had ever seen—in his sights.

“You’re going down,” he promised and there was no mistaking the sound of a bolt sliding back that followed.

But before the alpha could fire, the wolf lunged forward, changing from the sleek, brown animal into his two-legged form mid-leap. Watching the tawny fur morph into supple, tanned muscles made Jensen gasp aloud. He had never witnessed a change firsthand. The omega grabbed the barrel with his now-opposable thumbed hands and slammed the butt of it back into the hunter’s chest. The view switched over to the other alpha and they saw the first one once again on his back, while the male omega—muscles gleaming with sweat—pummel him near unconscious with his fists.

“Over here,” the still-upright hunter shouted to someone off-screen, while his body cam panned over the omega in front of him.

There was no denying that he was tall, despite being hunched over the fallen alpha. His arms and legs—covered in dirt, blood and sweat—went on for miles. Shaggy, brown hair shot through with golden streaks hung lankly over his eyes, leaving them in shadows. His wide, pink mouth was pulled back in a snarl, surprisingly white teeth visible beneath the grime. His hands shimmered and Jensen realized it was because his nails had elongated into claws. But rather than do the expected and claw the alpha bloody, the omega launched himself off the fallen hunter and ran away from what must have been his den.

The audience lost sight of the omega for a moment when the one hunter bent over to help the other regain his footing. But the view snapped back up when they both started running. Tall grasses and shrubs slapped across the camera and Jensen flinched like each one had struck him. He was breathing fast, ducking his head from one side to the other, trying to catch a glimpse of that magnificent omega like he was there. And he wasn’t the only one; every single alpha in attendance was riveted to the screen.

More shouts filled the air when additional hunters appeared and joined the chase. Deeper into the rough scrub they ran, occasional flashes of tanned, white skin appeared and then winked out of sight between the leaves and brush. The omega was drawing them all deeper into the cover and away from the open plains. There must have been at least ten hunters in pursuit when the view shifted yet again. This time, there was no mistaking the crosshairs that filled the screen.

“C’mon”, a rough whisper was heard to say. “C’mon, bitch.”

Just when it seemed like the omega had gotten away, he popped into view for an instant. And an instant was all the sniper needed. The crack of the rifle was sharp and final, as was the crash and tumble beyond.

“Got him!” the shooter yelled and the group of hunters descended on the fallen omega.

They must have used a silver bullet, because the two-leg dragged himself through the grass, still trying to escape when it was clear he couldn’t run or shift. Several of the team grabbed him and wrestled him upright. The omega towered over them all, even hunched over as he was, probably more confused why he couldn’t shift than in actual pain. The alpha he had attacked calmly walked up to him, all the while the omega squirmed and growled, finally spitting in his captor’s face.

A low sound, almost like a growl, rose up from the crowd at the shocking, disrespectful gall of the beast.

The alpha onscreen calmly dragged his sleeve across his face and then reached into a pouch on the side of the light pack he wore. He smiled when he pulled out a heavy, thick, silver collar. And the first hint of fear appeared on the omega’s chiseled features at the sight of the solid, final restraint. Even as the hunter approached him with the metal device, the omega yanked and pulled against the others. He managed to free one arm, sending an unaware alpha crashing to the side, and almost freed the other limb. But the rest of the hunters fell upon him, pulling his arms back so hard, Jensen expected one to pop out of its socket. Weakened from the leg wound, the omega was finally driven to his knees.

Much like Parise had done earlier onstage, another alpha stood behind him and sank his fist into the thick, dark hair and pulled back, baring a strong neck for all the alphas present. The omega grunted and thrashed around, but there were too many now. Even he seemed to sense the inevitable, giving out one last howl when the silver collar clicked shut. The screen faded back to plain stone and the alphas erupted into cheers.

“And here he is. I give you the beast!” Parise immediately shouted, arm swinging about in a grandiose flourish, which the crowd ate up.

Unlike with the other omegas, four guards—two on either side—dragged this one out. Jensen’s gaze drifted hungrily up and down the impressive, naked body finally before him. He licked at his lips once more and felt a cold glass immediately pressed into his left hand. Drinking deep without even realizing it, he was too enamored at what was on display before him to care.

Parise marched around the omega once, appearing to size him up and there was no hiding the fact that every alpha on stage with him had to look up. Jensen’s cock twitched in his dress slacks and he discreetly adjusted himself, eyes never leaving the omega. It was like he was trying to will the beast to look at him and him alone, when intellectually he knew that was stupid. Not only was the omega bound, but he wore a heavier collar than all the others as well as chainless manacles on his wrists and ankles; he had to be in pain and yet he stood tall against them all. Jensen’s traitorous cock was trying to do the same.

“Never before in all my years as your host have I ever seen one like him,” Parise admitted. He circled slowly around the omega, tapping on his shoulders, chest and thighs with his cane. “Clearly, a freak of nature with muscles like these. But there are no blemishes that I can find and let me tell y’all, I sure did look hard.” A few hoots and catcalls drifted in the air. “Don’t let these odd smudges dissuade,” he added, pointing to some faded markings around the omega’s left breast. “Whatever they like to smear on themselves washes off if y’all scrub hard enough. We simply wanted to let you see him in his natural state. Ain’t no pig in a poke here, I guarantee y’all that.”

Passing around him a third time, Parise paused and pointed at the omega’s proportionate cock and balls, nestled under a thatch of almost-black, wiry curls. “As y’all can see, we’ve left him ungelded. Whoever is alpha enough to take this one home with them can decided after the auction if they want to leave him intact or not. It’s not as if an omega needs that anyway,” he snickered and the resulting laughter broke some of the tension in the air.

“This one—this one is almost as strong as an alpha. Imagine,” he continued, voice dipping low while he moved to stand beside the omega, “being able to break this one whenever y’all wanted to. It would be like breaking another alpha e-ve-ry single time,” he drawled out, wicked and seductive.

Someone from the audience gasped in shock. It was not something alphas spoke about in polite company despite what they might feel, but Parise had proven he was not above breaking taboos before; this instance was no different.

“Just picture forcing this one to his knees,” he flicked his gaze at one of the guards and they slowly strong-armed the omega down, “making him _do_ whatever y’all wanted. Making him _take_ whatever y’all had to give.” There was no missing the thud when the omega’s knees hit the ground. “You’ve seen what he’s capable of,” the alpha said with a jerk of his head toward the wall, indicating the footage they had just watched. “Imagine owning all of this,” he teased, hand fondling the beast’s chest and tweaking a nipple sharply. “Imagine _taming_ all of this,” he practically growled when he yanked the other’s head back, exposing the long line of his neck, only marred by the presence of the thick collar.

The guards twisted the omega around, bending his arms back so high the omega had no choice but to prostrate himself before the alpha. Parise tapped a foot against the silver collar. “Imagine him under your very heel.” Two of the guards pulled back the cheeks of the omega’s ass, exposing his most hidden secrets to the hungry gaze of every alpha there. “Imagine fucking him…” he trailed off, cane sliding perilously close to the vulnerable, pink orifice now on display. Jensen’s chest heaved as the air grew tangier.

“One million!” a heavily accented voice cried out, breaking the spell they had been under.

Parise immediately stepped away from the helpless form and swung out his cane accusingly. “I didn’t say y’all could start,” he rebuked, miffed and turning his head aside. But he swung it back toward them a moment later, easy grin in place. “But I have a million on the table. Anyone got anything better?”

“Two million,” came the quick response.

“Three million,” another cried.

When no other offer followed, their host nodded to the guards and the omega was pulled back to his feet. He growled and heaved, getting nowhere fast. Once he was certain the omega was under control, Parise stepped up into his face, first brushing back the long bangs that obscured its eyes. “Despite all this size, it’s really quite a pretty thing. Cheshire cat eyes,” he said, taking inventory of what was before him. “Not really sure what color they are, to be honest.”

Jensen shifted and strained to get a better look. The omega’s eyes had haunted him from the start.

“And look at this mouth,” he exclaimed, trapping the omega’s jaw in his hand and shaking its muzzle to the delight of the crowd. “So many things I could do to a mouth like that.”

“Five million,” another called out and Jensen recognized that voice—Tahmoh.

“That’s more like it,” Parise exclaimed. “Finally, a _real_ alpha has spoken.”

Jensen curled his lip, a sound reverberating in his chest that was foreign and unrecognizable to him. He pulled the flap of his jacket aside, one glance verifying the amount his phone’s app still displayed. Despite the growing pressure building up from somewhere deep within himself, he forced that welling anger back. His mind flitted about, calculating numbers almost against his will.

House provided by firm.

No car.

No family.

No vacations.

No luxuries save a grand piano.

Nothing else.

That well-timed bonus sitting in his account, pushing him over the edge.  

Jensen stood tall.

“Ten million,” he said, solid and sure.

There was a collective gasp that ran through the gathered alphas like a brushfire. It was a record amount for an omega auction. The width of Parise’s smile threatened to crack his face.

“Now _that’s_ what I’m talking about. Anyone else care to try and step up?” he dared the others.

Jensen was made of stone. He didn’t turn to look at Tahmoh once.

“Ten million,” Parise repeated. “Going, going…gone!” he shouted out, arms flung up in victory.

The omega whipped his head around and Jensen was finally able to see its eyes clearly for the first time. Not blue, not green, not brown, but some explosion with all of those colors as shrapnel. He met the omega’s gaze head on, steely and resolute in return. There was only one thought that came to Jensen in that moment and it was the end of everything for the omega.

“Mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the second half of the last chapter. Please don't expect future updates this quickly. ;)

**Author's Note:**

> You can find out about fic updates and what I'm planning on working on at my Tumblr, where I also post fic recs for bottom!Jared/Sam stories.
> 
> [This](http://phoenix1966sbottom.tumblr.com/post/149912060889/about-this-blogsticky-post) post will tell you about the blog, so you know what you're getting into. :)


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